<img width="1500" height="1083" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110814114/636a54889c7e80680e0523b4jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>Lee and Austin are brothers who don’t seem to have much in common. Austin is a cultured man with an Ivy League degree trying to make it as a screenplay writer. Lee is a wanderer who lives in the shadows. But when they come together in a difficult situation, it seems they are not different at all: each brims with <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/the-roots-of-rape/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">toxic masculinity</a>.Nepal-based director <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2016/08/23/bhagvad-gita-as-opera/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Deborah Merola</a> has chosen to stage this Pulitzer-nominated 1980 play by American playwright Sam Shepard without translation or much adaptation. You can Google the plot, spoilers and all, but we are just going to tell you that Austin suddenly stands to lose his dreams, despite his superior education and manners. And Lee, though on the brink of gaining everything, knows he cannot make it without his brother’s refined education. And so the brothers blame each other for their plight and battle it out, with an alcoholic father and a passive mother added to the mix.Brothers envying one another is familiar to most of us: while Lee thinks that Austin — with his fancy degree and a foothold in Hollywood — is living the glamorous life, Austin thinks that Lee is a daredevil racking up new adventures every day.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/the-violence-of-violation/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The violence of violation</a>, Sewa BhattaraiThis intense drama simmers with an undercurrent of violence that threatens to explode. And sitting in the present, we cannot help remind ourselves of masculinity today — that however much things change, they remain the same. Lee’s desire to dominate everyone around him is an obvious example but so is Austin, whose manners are a mere veneer for what lies underneath.“This drama is relevant today in the era of Donald Trump, when toxic male machismo is on the rise,” Merola tells us after a rehearsal this week at Kausi Theatre.Perhaps because of its contemporary resonance, the drama is enjoying a revival today with a recent Broadway production starring Ethan Hawke and another starring <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/game-of-thrones-familiar-to-nepalis/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Game of Thrones</a> protagonist Kit Harington. Set in the US 30 years ago, it is considered a quintessentially American play, but the cast here feel that it has universal resonance today.“We in Nepal think the grass is greener on the other side, and many of us go abroad with great expectations. But often what awaits is disillusionment,” says Divya Dev, who plays the younger Austin. Dreams can come crashing down any time and when that happens, Austin has nothing to hold on to, and reverts to base instincts.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/hop-over-the-gender-gap/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Hop over the gender gap</a>, Reeti K.C.Alejandro Merola, who is menacing as the older Lee, feels every well-written drama has a wide resonance. “The lone alcoholic who slowly drifts out of respectable social circles and lives a criminal life on the edges is a universal character,” he says. “The play reminds us that there is an increase in such characters today.”Eelum Dixit has a powerful stage presence as the easily manipulated producer Saul who doesn’t speak up against bullies, and Kurchi Dasgupta makes an impact as the lost, possibly depressed, mother who stays indifferent even as her sons fight. Divya Dev is at his best as the melancholy Austin, who appears a gentleman but is full of passive aggression. Alejandro Merola frightens us with his outright hostility until he makes an unbelievable transformation.The drama is a stark portrayal of the unrealistic standards of success that modern society demands, and of the loss of simplicity and innocence. We see these mores manifesting now in Nepal, as well. Says Kurchi Dasgupta, who plays the mother: “Even though it is set in a particular time and place and has a distinctly American feel, you can draw allegories to the current time.” True WestKausi Theatre, Teku6-15 Sept

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Replaying male machismo

<img width="640" height="417" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108111156/636a35e09c7e80680e0482d4jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><img width="640" height="461" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108111156/636a35e39c7e80680e0482d5jpeg.jpg" alt="">Every Monday morning for the next few months a lot of Nepalis young and old will be up early to watch tv. No, not for the Champions League, but for the latest episode of the last season of the<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0944947/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Game of Thrones.</a> Our own bloody history of palace intrigue and royal feud perhaps make Nepalis familiar with the conspiracies, back-stabbing, violence, and belief in the supernatural that are staple fare of the HBO series based on the novels of <a href="http://www.georgerrmartin.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">George RR Martin</a>. Those who think there is too much blood-letting, gratuitous gore, or an unrealistic plot only have to look back at Nepal's own history of massacres at the Kot, Bhandarkhal and Narayanhiti to know that the stuff is all too real. The <a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/three-kings-in-four-days-nepal-massacre" target="_blank" rel="noopener">royal massacre of 2001</a> is still fresh in many minds, and would have made a great tv series to beat any melodrama that  Bollywood or Hollywood could concoct. We in Nepal may be ahead of the rest of the world in real-life bloodbaths, but are still behind in their artistic representation. That must be why we from the land of the erstwhile 24 Kingdoms take vicarious pleasure in bloody feuds in the 7 Kingdoms of Westeros. And if you miss the next episode (who wants to wake up at 6:45 AM?) there are plenty of cafes in town that have started holding screenings on Monday evenings, some free and some paid, where you can join fellow GoT addicts. There is nothing earth-shattering in the first episode of Season 8, in fact it leaves the viewer distinctly underwhelmed. There are some predictable meetings that flash back to Season 1 Episode 1 almost ten years ago. Sure, Jon gets on his dragon for the first time and flies off with Danaerys to romance in a mountain, and sure, Arya faces her captor The Hound, but there is nothing extra-dramatic or memorable. Especially after a searing end to Season 7, these plot lines barely create a ripple. That was perhaps to be expected of the first episode, however, because it is only setting the scene for the finale. The episode did have its moments: one of which was that Cersei, as usual, has a new lover, but this time her brother is not by her side to save her from her foolish dalliances. The fact that she orders her beloved (pun intended) brother Jaime killed is quite a shocker, even for Cersei. Meanwhile, the other queen Danaerys, known to flirt with women when she likes to, misses it badly this time, as she comes across a battle-hardened Sansa Stark whose looks belie her steeliness. The interaction between the two women, friendly up front but simmering with resentful sparks below, is something to behold. And this brings us to the crux of the finale, which has been plaguing fans for two blank years: what is going to happen now? You know it is the beginning of the end when the episode goes back to the very beginning, with a huge retinue marching into Winterfell. Nothing seems changed, and yet, everything has changed. The Starks are not the innocent fools they used to be, and yet, they continue to be noble fools. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlR4PJn8b8IGame of Thrones is famous for decapitations galore and moral ambiguity in a plot that is like a cross between Rana sibling infighting and The Sopranos. For the past few seasons, as the story focuses on the threat of the Night King's Army of the Whitewalkers, there have been clearer heroes and anti-heroes. Everything is looking good for Jon Snow, and the much admired Danaerys Targaryen. Is the show moving towards a typical happy ending after all?Viewers will also notice that the colour palette for this season is relatively muted. Blacks, grays, and the occasional white on Danaerys, but none of the vibrant blues of Margery or the flamboyant yellows of Ellaria. The colour range owes a lot to the fact that winter has come to the wintry north. But it also befits the sombre mood as the White Walkers' Army of the undead has finally broken through the magical ice wall. The costumes are stunning as usual, and there is much to enjoy visually, even apart from the drama. The revamped title sequence, for one, includes new locations, new stories, and interiors of the castles that we previously only saw from outside.The big reveal of the episode, Jon Snow's lineage, was not a big surprise to viewers at all, who have known for quite some time who he is. But finally, something has changed, and the next episode will hopefully see more action along these lines. All along, Jon Snow knew nothing, and now, he knows something.

Game of Thrones familiar to Nepalis

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21b69c7e80680e041753jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"/><figcaption>Photos: BIKRAM RAI</figcaption></figure>Amrita Acharia arrived at the children’s shelter in Godavari on Friday morning wearing a pastel shawl with intricate woven patterns. When complimented, she replied with a smile: “This is Palpali Dhaka, we went all the way to Tansen to get it.”Daughter of a Nepali father and Ukrainian mother, the Game of Thrones actress is in Nepal after 16 years on a journey to reconnect with her roots, and a long-awaited to visit the <a href="https://www.chorachori.org.uk/">ChoraChori</a> children’s charity <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/amrita-acharia-in-charity-drive/">she is involved with</a>.ChoraChori rescues <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/runaway-boys-brought-home-to-%20Nepal,2950">trafficked Nepali children</a> from <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=2478#.XC9w9S0Q0Wq">circuses</a> as well as victims of rape and abuse in India, giving them skills-training, rehabilitating them, and reuniting them with families when possible. Acharia helps the UK-based charity with fundraising dinners and other promotional activities.After leaving Nepal at the age of seven, Acharia grew up in different parts of Europe and turned to acting. The HBO series Game of Thrones made her a household name seven years ago. She acted in the role of Irri, maid to the heroine Daenerys, in the show reputed to be the world’s most watched.“People get killed so easily in that show, I was lucky to have survived for two seasons,” she laughs.  “That was so long ago, but it was a good start for me. It opened the door for me to work in other shows.”Read also: <a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/amrita-acharia-in-charity-drive/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Amrita Acharia in a charity drive</a>After that, Acharia appeared in many British and Norwegian productions, and is currently busy as a doctor in Good Karma Hospital. She doesn’t know whether her father, a real-life doctor, finds her take on the medical profession convincing. “He enjoys it as a show, but he is also aware of the artistic liberties we take,” she says.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21b99c7e80680e041754jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1148" height="1500">Good Karma Hospital is set in Kerala, but filmed in Sri Lanka. It was while on location there that she was reminded a visit to Nepal was long overdue both to see the land she grew up in, and also to visit ChoraChori.“I like how ChoraChori hosts children in a safe environment, provides them with education and skills, and makes them independent, and that is what drew me to help them,” she says. “A lot of people know me, and I want to use that fame to shed some light on the <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Nepali-children-rescued-from-India,3618">issues of Nepal’s children</a> and the efforts by charities like ChoraChori to address them.”On this trip, Acharia also trekked to Ghandruk, visited Butwal, Bhairawa, and Arghakhanchi to meet her father’s side of the family. She does not remember the Nepal of her childhood much, and her impression of this trip is that Nepal is a little busier, but otherwise the same.Does it feel like home? “I have lived in so many places that I adapt easily,” she answers. “So I am always partly at home, and partly an outsider everywhere. In Nepal, I found there are still people who think of me as family. And that feels good.”Raised in Britain and Norway, Acharia calls herself multilingual and multicultural, but has not been typecast as someone from a minority community in films. She says: “I don’t look like a typical Asian. I could be cast as anything, from Caucasian to Latina to Asian. So being of mixed race is actually an advantage for me.”Acharia’s parents spoke to each other in Ukranian and Russian, so she lost touch with Nepali. But she says she enjoyed being immersed in Nepali everywhere on this trip. In Godavari, Acharia asked in halting, accented Nepali what the girls learnt in tailoring class.She has never watched a Nepali movie, but says she is open to acting in one if she likes the project. “But I do not like my voice to be dubbed, so I must first learn Nepali,” she adds in English. “Maybe next time I can answer your questions in Nepali.”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21bd9c7e80680e041755jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="4000" height="3000">

Amrita Acharia comes home

<img width="1131" height="1700" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171136/6369349d9c7e80680e03e006jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>Game of Thrones actress Amrita Acharia has joined the online appeal for funds for the charity <a href="http://www.chorachori.org.uk/">ChoraChori</a> that has rescued 147 trafficked and displaced Nepali children from <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/runaway-boys-brought-home-to-%20Nepal,2950">slavery and abuse</a> in India.The 31-year-old Nepali-Ukrainian actress is based in Norway and acted in HBO’s Game of Thrones, UK tv series The Good Karma Hospital, the Norwegian tv series Acquitted and in the forthcoming animation The Missing Link.Says Acharia: “My father was educated, and he made sure we were educated and taught self-respect. When we moved away from Nepal, it was that education that gave us stability and the chance to follow our dreams. I love it that ChoraChori works on empowering young girls after these experiences, and gives them tools rather than just rescuing and dumping them in an orphanage”.Acharia was born in Kathmandu but her family moved to England when she was seven and after spending some years in the Ukraine, attended High School in Norway where her father is an obstetrician. She is now looking forward to going back to Nepal after 16 years to visit ChoraChori’s facilities in Thaukel. <img width="750" height="744" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171136/6369349f9c7e80680e03e007jpeg.jpg" alt="">Most of the rescued children are boys whom ChoraChori has reunited with their families who hadn’t heard from the boys in years and had come to believe them to be dead. Most of the children had left home in search of work before being trafficked, were apprehended by the Indian authorities and <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=2478#.W_yxTy2ZMWp">later rescued</a> and brought back to Nepal.Some of the children were runaways from domestic abuse whom ChoraChori funds through vocational training and into good employment. ChoraChori last year <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Nepali-children-rescued-from-India,3618">rescued Nepali girls</a> from a notorious children’s home in Muzaffarpur where at least 34 residents were gang raped by care home officials and outsiders. These girls are currently supported at ChoraChori’s child trauma management centre alongside a growing number of domestic child rape victims.“We’ve only just begun” says ChoraChori Founder Lt Col (retd.) <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=17939#.W_yxeS2ZMWp">Philip Holmes</a>. “We know that there are still scores of Nepali children trapped in Indian institutions and the Muzaffarpur case has brought into sharp focus just how dangerous these centres are for children.”With Brexit, ChoraChori is feeling the effects of a financial squeeze in the UK charitable sector. Which is why it is launching ‘The Big Give’ online Christmas appeal. For one week only from noon GMT on Tuesday 27 November, all online donations are automatically being doubled in value in the charity’s main annual fundraising drive.Says Holmes: “The truth is that some of the rescued children are so young that they even lack the vocabulary to describe what has been done to them. That is heart-breaking, but I have been encouraged and inspired by how ChoraChori-Nepal has risen to the challenge.”To see Amrita’s video appeal and donate to ChoraChori through The Big Give visit <a href="http://www.chorachori.org/">www.chorachori.org</a>

Amrita Acharia in charity drive

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.

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