<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d02fd9c7e80680e0a36adjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="6720" height="4480"/><figcaption>Photos: MONIKA DEUPALA</figcaption></figure>Ratna Man Shrestha has spent his entire life in Kirtipur, the ancient hilltop town overlooking Kathmandu Valley. Year after year, the 78-year-old has seen his neighbourhood change.<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepals-traditional-seismic-resistant-designs/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Traditional narrow houses</a> with exposed brick, carved <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/coming-out-of-the-woodwork/?preview_nonce=9d7ef77938" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">wooden windows</a> and tile roofs have given way to high rise concrete boxes, rented by recently arrived residents. On the streets, the friendly Newa “jwajalapa” greeting is now interspersed with “lhasso” and “fyafulla” of the new arrivals.Even the humble falcha rest stop in front of his house, where he grew up playing as a child, hanging out with friends as he got older, and even took refuge after the 2015 <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/building-back-cheaper-and-stronger/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">earthquake</a>, has changed."It was all wood when we were young, then they tore it down and rebuilt it using concrete,” says Ratna Man.Falcha are not just a part of Kathmandu Valley’s architectural heritage, but buildings around which much of the life of a neighbourhood took place. They used to be where pilgrims and traders could spend the night free of cost, or where the community came together during <a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/kathmandu-festivals-muted-amidst-coronavirus-lockdown/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">festivals and jatra.</a>https://youtu.be/X__-y8ZPvqMRecently, Ratna Man noticed that his neighbourhood falcha was being renovated again, but this time being restored to its quaint original design with carved wooden columns, beams, tile roof and traditional brick masonry and even a stone Ganesh figure in an alcove.Many of the rest stops here were damaged or demolished over time. Others lost their traditional design, and were replaced with soulless concrete structures housing various community clubs.But Kirtipur is now leading the way in reviving the humble falcha so that it will also bring back not just their traditional architecture, but stimulate the culture and community spirit associated with them.“This is what it used to look like in the old days,” Ratna Man tells us. ‘I hope it stays this way.”Walking down the lanes of Kirtipur, or indeed any of the other old towns of Kathmandu Valley, it is easy to visualise what the old Newa settlements looked like: narrow stone-paved alleys lined with houses leading to <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/kathmandu-loses-its-open-spaces/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">open courtyards</a> and the ubiquitous falcha meant for travelers and locals alike.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d03019c7e80680e0a36aejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="6720" height="4480">The open rest stops were located near wells or <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/a-temple-by-another-name/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">temples,</a> along busy thoroughfares or tucked in the alleys, often built by the nobility as a part of their community responsibility. But with haphazard urbanisation, road expansion and changing lifestyles, the Valley’s architecture and street life has been transformed.Many of the rest stops here were damaged or demolished over time. Others lost their traditional design, and were replaced with soulless concrete structures housing various community clubs.Since taking office, Kirtipur Mayor Ramesh Maharjan and his team have renovated and rebuilt more than 20 falcha in the Municipality, which has a population of 70,000.“A <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/crafting-a-heritage/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">tangible heritage</a> like falcha is an integral part of our identity,” says Maharjan. “It was important to restore them to their original style, but they are also a part of our intangible heritage, providing a place for the community to gather, especially for older residents to relax.”Architects and engineers from the municipality were involved in the study and design of the rest stops, with a particular focus on maintaining the traditional look and ambience of the falcha.“In the past, many of the falcha were turned into concrete structures and the essence was lost, we wanted to make sure that was not the case this time,” adds Maharjan.As Kirtipur’s falcha are restored, the rest stops are once more filled with people, mostly senior citizens from the neighbourhood, to chat, or watch passersby and children play nearby.Come evening, the historic town resonates with the sound of Dafa Bhajan as old and young gather in neighbourhood falcha to perform devotional songs accompanied by traditional instruments.“Without falcha, it would not be possible to continue this tradition,” says Badri Lal Shrestha, who on a recent Saturday evening was busy playing madal on the ground floor of a renovated falcha for an impromptu performance.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d03069c7e80680e0a36afjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="6720" height="4480">“This gives us not only a space to come together but a place to store our musical instruments. It would be inconvenient to sing and play out in the open,” he adds. This falcha is built in the sattal style, with the ground floor is used for bhajan, and the first floor as storage.There are now 17 dafa groups active in Kirtipur, up from 11 from a few years back, and Mayor Maharjan says it was because restoring the falcha has also brought back the traditional activities that used to happen in them.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d030a9c7e80680e0a36b0jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="6720" height="4480">Buddhi Kumari Shrestha is happy that the rest stop in his Bahiri Gaun neighbourhood is finally being renovated. “This is the route for the Gaijatra procession takes place, so now we will have a space to watch it from. After all what is a jatra without viewers,” she says.To make the rest stops pay for their own maintenance, the municipality plans to generate income from them. “We can display and sell traditional arts and crafts, as well as traditional Newa food during festivals,” says the mayor. “The idea is to make the falcha pay for itself.”

Sahina Shrestha

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Restoring rest houses to revive culture

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171132/6369339f9c7e80680e03dfacjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"/><figcaption>A ghost bicycle is tied to a tree near where Shyam Sundar Shrestha died on 27 October. The open drain is now covered. On the night before the 13th day remembrance at the site, this ambulance swerved to avoid another pothole and hit a tree nearby. All photos: KUNDA DIXIT</figcaption></figure>Hundreds of children had been walking past the gaping open drain outside the gates of Laboratory School in Kirtipur every day for the past six months. Teachers had repeatedly asked the Kathmandu Valley water supply utility to cover the ditch. A parent who complained recently was told by workers: “Mind your own business.” A shopkeeper across road has lost count of the number of motorcyclists injured trying to avoid the gutter at night.On 27 October, yoga instructor Shyam Sundar Shrestha was spending the Saturday evening at his home in Chagal with his mother, Sabitri and sister, Shoba. He told them not to let his little nephews waste time playing with mobile phones.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171132/636933a39c7e80680e03dfadjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1125" height="1500"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Shyam Sundar had dinner, checked his laptop, washed his face, and said he was bicycling out to Chobhar. His mother wondered why he had to go out into the dark streets, but did not say anything because her 41-year-old son had criss-crossed Nepal on his bicycle.Shyam Sundar was an introvert since childhood, his mother remembers. He lived frugally, ate little, dressed simply and had a passion for spiritualism and bicycling. He loved the great outdoors, and had followed his guru on a walking pilgrimage from Kathmandu to Kanya Kumari on the southern tip of India, a distance of 4,000km.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171132/636933a69c7e80680e03dfaejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="762" height="540"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>When he did not return till late that night, Sabitri Shrestha tried unsuccessfully to call her son on his mobile. Even though she was not unduly worried, she called around to relatives who reported a missing person to the Police.The call from the Police came early on Sunday morning: a pedestrian had found Shyam Sundar’s body inside an open drain on the road to Chobhar. The family was in complete shock, as weeping neighbours gathered around. At the site, Police extricated Shyam Sundar’s red bicycle and shoes, and sent his body to hospital for an autopsy.It was just the latest tragedy that brought into sharp focus the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=19147#.W-e3dqcQ0Wo" target="_blank" rel="noopener">death trap</a> that Kathmandu’s road have become, with open manholes and drains, gaping ditches on dark streets without pedestrian sidewalks, and the lack of warning signs.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171132/636933a89c7e80680e03dfafjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="880"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Shyam Sundar’s death occurred down the road from where renowned conservationist <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2012/03/25/killer-on-the-run/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Pralhad Yonzon</a> was killed almost exactly six years ago. Both were avid bicyclists, and their deaths have exposed criminal state negligence about road safety and the lack of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18714#.W-e3h6cQ0Wo" target="_blank" rel="noopener">bicycle lanes</a> that the city promised.Friends, relatives, colleagues and bicycle enthusiasts gathered on 10 November at the spot where Shyam Sundar Shrestha died for his 13th day remembrance. They paid tribute to a quiet, spiritual man dedicated to helping others. Away from crowd, weeping silently was Sabitri Shrestha.“I cannot describe to you what a decent man and devoted son he is,” she sobbed, still speaking in the present tense about her son. “He never says an unkind word to anyone, never raises his voice. He does not take sugar or white rice, eating only fruit and buckwheat, and has few cravings.”After his two sisters got married, Shyam Sundar was taking care of his mother in their Chagal home, his father having died when he was young. He worked as an English tutor and a yoga instructor, but never felt the need to make much money.Shyam Sundar’s five-year-old nephew points at a photo of him and says, “Pau.” Carrying him on her arms, Shobha Shrestha says tearfully: “He had just started recognising his uncle, and has been asking where he is. What do I tell him?”The ditch where Shyam Sundar died has now been covered with concrete slabs. But the night before the commemoration, an ambulance that had tried to avoid another pothole had rammed into the side of the road, just next to the white ghost bicycle chained to a tree that serves as a memorial to Shyam Sundar.As the small gathering observed a two-minute silence, Nepal Sambat revellers on pickups roared past, there was the sound of fire crackers going off nearby. An ambulance rushed past siren blazing.Advocate Sunil Ranjan Singh’s son goes to Laboratory School, and he had complained many times to the authorities about the dangerous open drain. He said: “This is a failure at all three levels of government. They are all guilty, and the responsibility goes right up to the Prime Minister.”Singh wants to set a legal precedent by taking the matter to the courts so it will set a landmark decision on responsibility and compensation for such negligence in future.On Sunday after Shyam Sundar’s body was found, the Kathmandu Valley water utility (KUKL) covered up the open drain in half-an- hour. “If it was so simple to cover it and make it safe, why didn’t they do it earlier? Did someone have to be killed?” advocate Sunil Ranjan Singh asked.The police released the autopsy report over Tihar, it was as everyone had suspected: Shyam Sundar was knocked unconscious after falling off his bicycle and drowned in sewage half-a-metre deep.Despite the people consoling her, Sabitri Shrestha looked alone and forlorn. She joined her hands in prayer, and said softly: “I used to tell him don’t go where there are no roads, but he died on a road, right here in the capital. I hope no more Nepalis have to die like my son.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171132/636933ac9c7e80680e03dfb0jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="591" height="1024"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>

Kunda Dixit

Don’t go quietly into the night

<figure><img width="640" height="454" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171120/6369307f9c7e80680e03c0ffjpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Open drain where Shyam Sundar Shrestha fell and drowned. Shrestha's bicycle, sneakers and bag being retrieved by the police the next morning. Photo: SUNIL RANJAN SINGH / FACEBOOK</figcaption></figure>Yoga teacher Shyam Sundar Shrestha,38, left his home in Kirtipur for a quick spin in his bicycle on Saturday evening. When he did not return home, relatives carried out a search and informed police.His body was found by a passerby the next morning at the gate of Tribhuvan University, drowned in a shallow drain. He had fallen into it in the dark, was knocked unconscious and died in the sewer.Locals had complained about that open hole to KUKL for the past six months, but nothing had been done. There are similar death traps all over the city, and the Municipality seems oblivious to the danger to citizens.Besides locals, a number of tourists have also fallen in holes. With its potholes, Thamel has become a training area for mountain biking and trekking. One visitor had to cancel a trek having twisting an ankle even before he got to the mountains.  KUKL cannot get away with passing the buck for Shyam Sundar Shrestha’s murder. But in a state of impunity, it probably will. It is time outraged citizens rose up to demand justice.The Pink YakDo you have a photograph or video of a dangerous pothole or open drain in Kathmandu Valley? Mail to editors@nepalitimes.com <figure><img width="640" height="853" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171120/636930819c7e80680e03c100jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>On the road to Tokha. Photo: BILLI BIERLING</figcaption></figure><figure><img width="640" height="853" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171120/636930859c7e80680e03c101jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Thamel. Photo: ABINESH TULADHAR</figcaption></figure><figure><img width="1024" height="768" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171120/636930889c7e80680e03c102jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Chakrapath. Photo: LIBERTY HOLIDAYS AND GHALE TREKS NEPAL</figcaption></figure><img width="640" height="853" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171120/6369308b9c7e80680e03c103jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="640" height="853" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171120/6369308f9c7e80680e03c104jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="1632" height="1224" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171120/636930929c7e80680e03c105jpeg.jpg" alt="">

Murder, not accident

Recent outrage in Sikkim over an Indian Army expedition climbing <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/saving-kangchenjunga">Kangchenjunga</a>, the world’s third-highest peak, has spiked attention to the need to balance mountaineering jobs with indigenous reverence for sacred landmarks. Kangchenjunga (8,586m) is not a peak as much as it is a mountain range with 16 peaks above 7,000m on the border between India and Nepal -- the word itself means ‘five treasures of the snows’ in Tibetan. Some of the highest prominences like Kangchenjunga West and Kangbachen are in Nepal, while the Main, Central and South Peaks are on the border. Climbing the peak from the Indian side has been banned since 2001 because the indigenous Lepcha community there regard the mountain as the abode of Dzoe-nga, the patron deity of Sikkim, which was an independent Himalayan Kingdom until it was annexed by India in 1975.&nbsp; Buddhists in Sikkim say their saint, Padmasambhava, recognised the mountain as a protective spirit. The state has declared the base of the mountain Kangchenjunga National Park, which covers an area one-third of Sikkim. ‘The act of scaling this sacred peak is not only a matter of serious concern but also a violation of both the prevailing legal provisions and the deeply held religious beliefs of the people of Sikkim,’ read a letter from Chief Minister Prem Singh Tamang (Golay) to Amit Shah, India’s Minister of Home Affairs and Cooperation.&nbsp; Tamang continued: ‘We further request Your Honour to take up the issue with the Government of Nepal to ensure that no future expeditions are permitted on the sacred mountain, in deference to the deeply held beliefs and cultural values of the people of Sikkim.’ Kangchenjunga was climbed for the first time exactly 70 years ago by a British team who told King Tashi Namgyal, the Choegyal of Sikkim, that they would not set foot on the summit. Since then, there have been about 532 successful climbs of the peaks and 52 have died while trying.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250628060616_5c268e08cf49f36b79ef9b31933fc2d9bf9a6f65414e7ca06dd028bf04e7ccc1.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250628060616_5c268e08cf49f36b79ef9b31933fc2d9bf9a6f65414e7ca06dd028bf04e7ccc1" data-rendition-name="original" width="1782" height="1178" loading="lazy" alt="Kangchenjunga: too sacred to climb NT"> <figcaption>Indigenous communities in Sikkim held purification ceremonies following the Indian expedition to Kangchenjunga. Photo: THE VOICE OF SIKKIM / FACEBOOK</figcaption> </figure>  <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/peak-climbing-season-2025-s4abrxny">This spring climbing season</a> alone, there were 70 climbing permits for foreigners issued for Kangchenjunga by the Nepal government, and made it to the top while one French climber died.&nbsp; One of the expeditions this year was an Indian Army team led by Col Ranveer Jamwal, who has summited the highest peaks on all seven continents, and Mt Everest thrice. Jamwal’s team was on the final leg of a ‘<a href="https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/india/nimas-summits-mt-kangchenjunga-concludes-historic-har-shikhar-tiranga-mission-successfully/articleshow/121341315.cms?from=mdr">Har Shikhar Tiranga</a>’ (The Tricolour on Every Peak) mission to plant the Indian flag at the highest points of each of India’s 28 states. Kanchenjunga was the last peak they had left, and the hardest, but the expedition put five climbers on the summit. What seems to have incensed the Sikkimese is that while it has banned climbing the mountain from its side, it was an Indian military expedition that went to Nepal to climb the mountain. After news broke of the climb in May, the Sikkim Indigenous Lepcha Tribal Association asked people to observe purification ceremonies in temples across the state. Mayalmit Lepcha of the association acknowledged that the Sikkim government was also partly at fault: “I don’t think such an expedition could have gone forward without the state government being informed, so it could have done something to intervene. It shows weakness. What’s done is done, all we can do is carry out these sanctification ceremonies.”&nbsp; In 2000, one year before Sikkim’s ban, the state allowed an Austrian team to attempt Kanchenjunga’s northeast face for a fee of $20,000, on agreement that they would stop 10m before the summit. Despite this, there was outrage over the expedition on the grounds that it violated Indian laws regarding the defiling of religious sites and Sikkim’s rights to maintain its culture after merging with India. The Indian Army expedition was also seen to have circumvented Sikkim’s law and violated religious sensibilities by going through Nepal. While the team may have thought they were respecting Sikkim’s beliefs by finding a way to complete the mission, the people of Sikkim saw it as defilement.&nbsp; The somber mood of the Sikkim people at the ritual contrasts sharply with Jamwal’s sense of accomplishment. “Without a doubt, the most difficult summit of my life,” he told reporters after the climb. “It tested every ounce of our will.”&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250628060616_ccfe079c78dab788d19fe2080ee8a5d5dcb11de4157316f6d94e5964da097157.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20250628060616_ccfe079c78dab788d19fe2080ee8a5d5dcb11de4157316f6d94e5964da097157" data-rendition-name="original" width="787" height="377" loading="lazy" alt="Kangchenjunga: too sacred to climb NT"> <figcaption>Prayer flags along the Sikkim-Kangchenjunga trekking route. Photo: TREKKINGININDIA.COM</figcaption> </figure>  The <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/the-rise-and-fall-of-nims-purja">controversial Nepali-British mountaineer Nirmal Purja</a> was also on Kangchenjunga this spring the mountain, on a mission to summit all 14 8,000m peaks for a third time. He echoed Jamwal about the tough conditions: “The conditions above camp were extremely tough, with deep snow and challenging terrain—more crevasses than usual.” Nepal’s government has not said anything publicly, but it is unlikely that it will ban climbing on Kangchenjunga, since it is becoming popular with expeditions because of its technical challenges, and overcrowding on Mt Everest. Nepal does have bans in place for some of its mountains out of respect for local beliefs. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/to-open-machapuchre-for-mountaineering-or-not">Mt Machapuchre</a> (6,990m) the imposing pyramid that looms over Pokhara, for example, is seen as an icon of purity by the Gurung people and a symbol of Vishnu by the Hindu communities who live at its base. A strict climbing ban has been in place since 1957, when a British expedition led by Col Jimmy Roberts stopped 45m short of the summit – either because the last bit was too difficult or out of deference to local sentiments.&nbsp; Khumbila that stands above Namche Bazar is only 5,761m high, but like Kanchenjunga is considered the protector deity of the Sherpa people. Gauri Shankar on the Nepal-China border, called Chomo Tseringma by the local community, was off-limits between 1965 and 1979 due to its association with Lord Shiva and Gauri, his consort. Although expeditions are now allowed, there are not too many takers. In Tibet, climbing Mount Kailash is prohibited by the Chinese government because it revered by the Hindus, Buddhists and followers of the Bon faith. Even Mt Everest is regarded as sacred, and its Sherpa name is Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.&nbsp; Economically, climbs on Kanchenjunga bring in decent revenue. This climbing season, the 41 permits, at $1,800 each, brought in $73,800. This is somewhat comparable to Makalu, Lhotse, and Annapurna I, but these numbers are dwarfed by the $4 million in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/the-everest-industry">Everest permits</a>. Revenue from Kanchenjunga climbing permits is something Nepal could potentially forgo if necessary, but the expeditions also provide jobs to hundreds of high altitude guides, porters, base camp support staff and other logistical costs.&nbsp; As the third highest mountain in the world and the tallest in India, there will always be significant motivation to climb it from the Nepal side, especially as climbers are drawn by the technical climbing at high altitude.

Kangchenjunga: too sacred to climb?

The monsoon this year arrived on time, and brought life-giving rain — irrigating paddy terraces, recharging groundwater, reviving springs, and increasing electricity generation.
But Nepal has to deal with either too much water or too little. On a clear April day before the monsoon, the hills of Sindhuli district were parched, and there were wildfires burning out of control. There had been no rain for the past six months.
And that has been the perennial crisis for Nepal’s farmers: that 85% of the rainfall occurs during just four months of the monsoon with little rain for the other eight months.&nbsp;
The water crisis is related to the powerful changes sweeping the mid-hill region of Nepal. With better roads, higher incomes and more exposure, many residents now aspire to have the kind of water supply seen in urban homes. They want hot or cold water at the turn of a tap, showers and flush tank toilets.&nbsp;
To meet this rising demand, many local and provincial governments are investing in large water supply projects often by lifting water from rivers hundreds of metres down the mountain. But these new systems may not be sustainable in the long run.
Many villages in Sindhuli are switching from local springs to piped systems, and even in rural homes, overhead tanks are becoming common.
But this new convenience comes with big challenges. Lifting water from rivers far below requires long pipes, electric pumps, and constant maintenance. These systems are costly, and the streams themselves often shrink to a trickle in the dry months. Big water-lifting schemes look impressive, but there is doubt if they can meet growing water demand.
A much more sustainable solution would be what some communities are doing: restoring old ponds or build new recharge systems. But those villages are exceptions, in most places traditional ponds and wallows are being filled up to be turned into sports fields, or make way for buildings.
Where there are new ponds, they are sometimes in the wrong places or without proper design. Roads and drains are not engineered properly and have increased landslides and erosion. Water management in hilly areas is not just about building things, it is about building in the right way, in the right place.
Traditional water systems were based on nature. They were not perfect, but they used the land wisely. Ponds used to hold rainwater and slowly refill springs which supported families, farms, and forests.&nbsp;
Not everything worked well in the past, but we can learn from traditional water management practices. Across Nepal, some rural municipalities have launched campaigns to store monsoon runoff — either in tanks, ponds or by recharging the aquifers.
But not all efforts have been successful. Some ponds are built without any hydrological study. Some are rushed to meet deadlines rather than real needs.&nbsp;
Now, the Muhan initiative hopes to revive springs to make households more resilient and help farmings. With the financial support of the Australian Centre for International Agricultural Research, research is being done to understand how springs work and how they are affected by changes in rainfall, land use, and development.&nbsp;
Instead of just building pipes and tanks, the project maps the entire springshed so we can understand the root cause of water shortage. In Sindhuli, the problem is not the amount of rain, but the loss of natural systems that store it and the social systems that manage water.&nbsp;
Nepal’s towns and villages now face a major challenge: how to manage water all year round as demand rises with people’s living standards. Depending only on river-lift systems is not a sustainable solution.&nbsp;
We need a mix of approaches that help store water from the rainy season to make it available for the rest of the year, whether by directly harvesting rainwater, restoring ponds, managing springsheds, or smart management of demand.
Rural Nepal is also seeing dramatic depopulation. Much of the outmigration can be stemmed if there is easier water supply for agriculture and household use. Across the mid hills, villages are emptying because springs are going dry. Government policy needs to catch up with the reality on the ground, and support solutions that work for people and nature. Every water supply plan should include recharge structures. Every road or building project should consider water flow and erosion. Local governments need more than budgets: they need training, tools, and data.
Ngamindra Dahal is with the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, Kathmandu. Hemant Ojha collaborated in this piece and is associated with the Australian National University.

Water for Life

<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/the-last-of-the-kusunda">The Kusunda</a> are among the last remaining hunter-gatherer communities left in Nepal, and it has only one fluent speaker left of a language that is not related to any other language group in South Asia.&nbsp; The Kusunda call themselves the King of the Forests ((गेम्येहाक़ in Kusunda,वन राजा in Nepali) and used to have a nomadic lifestyle till recently. But decades of exclusion from mainstream society and modernity have forced the Kusunda to assimilate. &nbsp; Today, most Kusunda live across Nepal’s mid-hills and western plains, choosing to identify themselves as Thakuri and adopting names like Sen, Shahi, and Khan to avoid ostracisation. Over time, inter-ethnic marriages between the Kusunda and other communities became increasingly common.&nbsp; However, the assimilation with other communities also meant that almost no one from the Kusunda community can speak their mother tongue – considered by linguists to be a ‘language isolate’ not related to any other language group in the world, and lacking set rules of grammar that are foundational to other languages. There are no words for ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ in Kusunda, nor are there words to signify direction. There are 23 languages with less than 1,000 speakers listed in Nepal's 2021 census, with Kusunda being the language with the least number of speakers. The number of people who identified as Kusunda has decreased with each subsequent census. Only 253 individuals identified themselves as Kusunda in the last National Census of 2021, down from 273 in 2011.&nbsp; <div class="embed-block"><iframe src="https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/raithane-bhakha/embed/episodes/Kusundas---the-last-of-the-forest-kings-e23ge6p/a-a9peei1" height="102px" width="400px" frameborder="0" scrolling="no"></iframe></div> The government’s decision to provide a social security stipend to the community for the past few years has prompted many from the Kusunda community to reclaim their identity and in the process, explore their culture and language. Kamala Sen Kusunda, who lives in Dang, is the only fluent native Kusunda speaker alive, although there are now other Kusunda and non-Kusunda people learning how to speak the language. By the time Kamala Sen Kusunda was born in 1975, her family had settled in a village in Rolpa. Although she did not experience the nomadic life of her forebears, she still roamed the forests freely as a child and many of the values and socio-cultural practices of her community were instilled in her and her siblings.&nbsp; This meant that Kamala grew up speaking Kusunda with her family. But by then, the Kusunda had increasingly begun to interact with people beyond their community, and inter-ethnic marriages had become a norm.&nbsp; Kamala herself married at 18 to a 52-year-old man from the Chhetri community. She would go on to have four children, but they were brought up with her husband’s culture and community rather than her own, and teaching them her mother tongue seemed impractical.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250628030648_afaa298bf8ea3b7086e2ed086b11eab463ef2b20a82a4aad74df3dd2e922a4c3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20250628030648_afaa298bf8ea3b7086e2ed086b11eab463ef2b20a82a4aad74df3dd2e922a4c3" data-rendition-name="original" width="855" height="641" loading="lazy" alt="Kusunda NT"> <figcaption>Gyani Maiya Kusunda with Kusunda youth in 2015.</figcaption> </figure>  “If I had spoken my language to them when they were children, they would have learned,” she tells us ruefully. “But they were growing up in a different community, so I never pushed, and they never expressed interest.” At the time, she had other things to worry about, such as earning a livelihood and sustaining her family. To find work, Kamala and her family moved to Shimla in India, where she worked at an apple orchard for six years.&nbsp; Over the next years, Kamala and her family moved back and forth between India and Nepal for work, and Kamala was not actively conversing in the language of her people or being able to connect with members of her community now scattered across Nepal.&nbsp; Had she not forgotten her language after all those years? “How could I forget the language of my ancestors?” she replies. “Not speaking it did not mean that it ceased to be a part of me.”&nbsp; Kamala had been working at a brick kiln in Thimi seven years ago when the National Language Commission tracked her down, offered her a paid position as a Kusunda language consultant and source person for basic language training in Dang.&nbsp; It was there that Kamala met her cousin Gyani Maiya Sen Kusunda, the only other person able to speak Kusunda fluently, who had been working with the Commission to conserve Kusunda language and culture. It was also where Kamala met language researcher and lexicographer Uday Raj Ale. Ale had been in the middle of his research into the Tharu language and community 15 years ago when he met Gyani Maiya Kusunda’s son, who told him that his mother was one of the few people who spoke Kusunda, but that no one had shown an interest in studying and preserving the language and culture. Ale met Gyani Maiya, spending time with her learning and researching Kusunda. By 2017, Ale had collected enough words to put together a Kusunda dictionary. The Kusunda vocabulary currently comprises 2,000 words. His research into the Kusunda language and culture has taken him to every known Kusunda household in Nepal. Although the census puts the number of Kusunda at 253, Ale reckons there are only 158.&nbsp; “Kusunda language is endangered due to its lack of use in everyday life, literature, and religious and socio-cultural practices, as well as the prevalence of inter-ethnic marriages,” explains Ale. In 2019 the Language Commission began its language transfer programs for youth from indigenous communities. Since then, the Commission has completed multiple phases of Kusunda language classes in Dang facilitated by Uday Raj Ale. The classes have 20 students, not just from the Kusunda community, but also interested non-native students.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250626120632_c6c378bc00af450f2b7f0cf17af1c3b2b6f7b7226927c458c3e01ec389869d33.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250626120632_c6c378bc00af450f2b7f0cf17af1c3b2b6f7b7226927c458c3e01ec389869d33" data-rendition-name="original" width="1485" height="1535" loading="lazy" alt="Kusunda NT"> <figcaption>Students learning Kusunda with instructor Uday Raj Ale (second row, left)</figcaption> </figure>  Khamba Rokaya, who worked as a caretaker for young Kusunda children in Dang, became interested in learning the language as she sat in with the children during their lessons, and for the last few years has been among the few non-native Kusunda language learners in Dang. “I am not from the Kusunda community, but now that I have learned the language, I hope to do my part to carry on the work and share my knowledge with as many people as possible,” she says. “One way to ensure that we preserve this language is to extend its speaker base, both within the Kusunda and non-native communities.” Ale and Kamala have continued to work together since Gyani Maya’s passing in 2020, expanding the Kusunda vocabulary and creating appropriate curricula to fit the needs of the students as their knowledge of Kusunda expands.&nbsp; But without any documentation of Kusunda history, the community’s traditions, stories, values and language were at risk of being lost to time. “The loss of an ethnicity, language or culture in a country is akin to losing a vital organ, and a unique perspective of looking at the world,” says Ale. Which is why Archive Nepal in collaboration with the British Council’s Cultural Protection Fund and the UK’s Department of Culture, Media, and Sport in February launched a book of creative writings in the Kusunda language titled पिन्डा (meaning ‘The First’ in Kusunda): A Compilation of Kusunda Literature. The book is a collection of informative essays about the Kusunda language and culture, short stories that explore themes from nomadic life to universal Nepali experiences of poverty and migration, letters to loved ones, as well as conversational pieces by five Kusunda students ranging from ages 16 to 30. The works in the Kusunda language are also translated into Nepali and English.&nbsp; “Language is an important part of ethnic identity, and our indigenous languages cannot evolve or be conserved unless they are spoken or taught,” said Ale during the launch of the book earlier this year. “But most importantly, language exists as long as there exists literature in that language.” Kamala was in Kathmandu for the launch of the book, and smiled proudly as she looked at the young writers who had contributed to the collection. She said: “I’m glad the young people have chosen to learn and preserve Kusunda. Otherwise, our language would have died with me.” &nbsp;

Saving the Kusunda language from extinction

A lot of the most critical healthcare software used in the United States, from insurance, medical records, &nbsp;analytics, billings to general operations are made in Nepal.
Coding is outsourced to IT companies in Nepal because it is cheap, and there is a large pool of coders with 15,000 graduates entering the job market every year.&nbsp;
Churn is low, and programming remains a desirable career, with people able to work remotely for high pay with little investment, often even without a degree.
Indeed, building US healthcare software holds up the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-needs-to-be-more-intelligent-about-ai">growing Nepali IT industry</a> which last year exported software worth $900 million, nearly as much as Nepal earns from tourism every year.
IT exports have a long history, starting from when Rudra Pandey co-founded D2Hawkeye, which pioneered healthcare analytics. The company is now Verisk Health. &nbsp;
There are over 15 technology companies that specialise in medical software, operating mostly as subsidiaries of US companies, but some are also ‘vendors’ that are completely Nepali-owned.
One such company is <a href="https://techkraftinc.com">TechKraft</a>, which builds software for clients across the world in healthcare, but also in finance. Its Executive Director Santosh Koirala says: “A big advantage Nepal has in making US healthcare software is simply how long it has been involved in it. This has created many domain experts, and new programmers here are technically excellent as well.”&nbsp;
The trust and skills that companies and individuals have built up is also how TechKraft gets clients, referrals and business, and they have to strictly ensure data security and privacy protection.
“This is personal information about people’s insurance, their visits to the hospital, their diseases. Any breaches could lead to expensive lawsuits,” says Koirala.&nbsp;
While it is much easier for subsidiary companies to keep data within their systems, vendors must put in place multiple layers of physical and cybersecurity to convince clients to work with them. They must work in what is called a ‘cleanroom’: a controlled environment where teams can work on sensitive data without compromising security or privacy.&nbsp;
Laptops and even pen and paper cannot leave the workplace, and all employees must pass training in globally recognised information security standards.
AI is transforming processing of healthcare data, and companies like TechKraft have integrated it in everything they do. Agentic AI is designed for a high level of autonomy, and can handle booking, rescheduling, and reminders for patient visits, detect anomalies in medical imagery, analyse patient data to create custom treatment plans, predict outcomes, even catch medical fraud.&nbsp;
AI also helps programmers at TechKraft write better code, faster. “AI has had a huge impact on our workflow, it is faster and more efficient,” says Koirala, ”but since it makes things so much easier, it may become harder to find business.”&nbsp;
It also means that a project may require only four engineers skilled with AI instead of say, ten. The remaining six are out of a job.
Another Nepali company, <a href="https://wiseyak.com">Wiseyak</a>, also works on a host of AI healthcare products. One is software that can diagnose diabetic retinopathy and pneumonia at least as well as the best doctors. Another is AI-EMR algorithms that can analyse patient data to provide insights and recommendations.&nbsp;
“We help doctors by building powerful tools, and not replace them.” says co-founder and CEO of Wiseyak Suresh Manandhar, who has been studying and working with AI for 40 years, long before it became a part of everyday life.&nbsp;
Wiseyak now wants to make software that can be used in Nepal’s hospitals to diagnose various diseases. For retinopathy, an AI is trained on publicly available datasets of retinal scans.&nbsp;
The model can then learn to detect a range of symptoms such as microaneurysms in the eye, ‘cotton wool’, and macular degeneration. It can then make a diagnosis based on the quantity and size of the anomalies it detects.&nbsp;
“AI can be fine tuned by feeding it retinal scans of Nepalis,” says Manandhar who admits to difficulties because medical records in Nepal are still paper-based and not digital, and few hospitals want to retool. “The government should &nbsp;invest and build momentum to adopt these technologies.”&nbsp;
Santosh Koirala of TechKraft is also president of Nepal Association for Software and IT Services Companies (NAS-IT), a group that focuses on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/self-learning-comes-before-machine-learning">policy and advocacy with the government</a>. He is optimistic about gradual progress in lobbying efforts.&nbsp;
“The government is slowly getting it,” he told us. “Removing limits to Foreign Direct Investment and allowing Nepali companies to have offices abroad are big steps in the right direction.”&nbsp;
NAS-IT also advises universities on the development of courses to keep students up to date with the latest developments in AI, as well as pushing for data insurance to make clients less reluctant to work with Nepali companies.
Both Koirala and Manandhar are optimistic about the general direction Nepal’s IT sector is going in, and can build on.
&nbsp;“There is a lot of potential which is being recognised quite quickly,” says Koirala. “We know the technology now, and we know how things are done at a global level. The next step is for Nepal to start making products that can be used widely across the world.”&nbsp;
IT products for application within Nepal are now designed in Nepal itself, and software companies such as eSewa were ahead of their time in the region.
Manandhar is also bullish: “There is no limit to how helpful AI can be for Nepal. Trained, super-specialised doctors are scarce, so AI can be a substitute and make them three, four times more efficient.” &nbsp;&nbsp;