<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

We often see ourselves reflected in the other. For someone who grew up in Kathmandu Valley in the eighties and nineties, this maxim comes alive with an even greater force. Nepal’s media ecosystem was dismal, the school curriculum was narrow and did not provide opportunities for creative expression. Perhaps that is why I became obsessed with MTV videos and Bollywood films. I saw my developing self reflected in these story-lines and razzmatazz. When the media and education system do not engage the public and reflect myriad interests, aspirations and lifestyles of the population, citizens get detached and disconnected from their roots. I left for America for further studies, and was somewhat determined to never return to Nepal. It was a country full of potholes and black-outs. But foreigners have been fascinated with our country for decades. In the early 19th century, Francis Buchanan-Hamilton led a pioneering expedition and documented more than a thousand species of plants native to the region. Almost a century later, in 1905, Frenchman Sylvan Levi published ‘the first attempt to produce a comprehensive study of Nepal’, drawing on not just indigenous but available Chinese and European sources as well. After Nepal opened up in the 1950s, different kinds of foreigners have traveled here -- most notably, cold-war era spies disguised as diplomats, and later came the hippies. I returned to Nepal in 2013 and was primarily struck by two major demographics - the artists and the expats. Energised by the recent revolution, the creatives were making vibrant, powerful works. The expats, on the other hand, demonstrated a different way to navigate life in Kathmandu Valley. These two groups of people re-introduced Nepal to me and I began seeing my country and my hometown with a renewed perspective. Which is why one particular image from Giovanna Caruso’s ongoing show at the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank">Kalā</a><a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank"> Salon</a> curated by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/facades-and-flowers-from-nepal-to-italy" target="_blank">Sophia L Pandé</a> instantly caught my attention -- rather, it called out to me, as if it was composed for me, framing a key moment from my own life. Its title is, coincidentally, 2013. Like most of her other works, the pen-and-ink drawing is punctuated by an explosion of watercolour: a woman standing confidently in front of a Newa-style house, a leg arched up, as if she is fixing a strap around an ankle before stepping out on an adventure. The watercolour depicts a rainbow streaming out of a pot through a second-floor window. The rest of the details are rendered in realism – clusters of garlic and onion hanging to dry from the rafters, and further down a stack of corn. There are towels drying, even an old water pump.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="art review Kala Salon"> </figure>  When I walked over to this artwork with Caruso, she chuckled, “Ah, this work is a celebration of my 30 years in Nepal.” It was while trying to calm a restless group of students during her teaching days in Italy that Caruso first came across an iconic image of Kathmandu Darbar Square. She had found an old box of slides and while projecting images from the Himalaya to engage her students, the artist was determined to travel to Nepal. The first flat she rented was close to the square and the view from her rooftop was the same as the one she had encountered inside her classroom. She has been traveling to Nepal every year since. Some of her favourite drawings depict Khokana in morning fog. From 1993-2006, she drew murals at Ram Mandir and Pashupatinath, asking sadhus to guide her and correct her depictions. Caruso received a classical education, which means she was trained to focus on perspective and geometry while capturing mainly portraits and still lives. She is influenced by M C Escher and his explorations of mathematics and symmetry. No wonder she finds the Darbar Square architecture so compelling. She also names as inspiration Gustave Dore, whose style is different from Escher’s and I can see how she has fused these influences in her body of work: Escher’s austerity complimented and slightly dislodged by Dore’s comics and caricatures. “Before starting, the painting needs to be complete in my mind,” she explains as we pass a series of portraits titled Saraswati, Lakshmi, Kali Dancing, and Durga dominated by a roaring tiger. “These are all real people, I ask my friends and family members to sit for me.” The Kali in the drawing has the artist’s fiery copper red hair and she is dancing, surrounded by various men with flowing hair. The artist seems to have experimented here, drawing the revelers from above, and indulging in playful abandon. Depictions of Nepal are often in danger of being exoticised. But Caruso is familiar with her subjects, knows our alleys and temples intimately. Her colours and compositions are passionate and dense. In an essay, Anirudh S Chari writes the artist’s work is splashed with rapturous energy and most drawings have a carnivalesque element. ‘Kali Dancing’ illustrates this idea perfectly in that she has turned Kali’s usual fearsome portrayal on its head by depicting and embracing another feminine principle - the capacity to celebrate and create joy. Apart from drawing inspiration from Hindu goddesses and Nepal’s multi-colored rituals, Caruso has also drawn the Sumerian Ianna and Lillith and the Egyptian Nut. She enjoys drawing Nataraja, and says it is because “Shiva is a good husband”. We stand another painting titled 100 Days a Lion. “There is a saying in Italian, Better one day as a lion than a hundred days as a sheep, but I thought why not 100 Days a Lion?” This sentiment captures this nomadic artist’s spirit spanning four decades, in which she has captured urban energy as well as the sacred imagery of ‘life diaries on canvas’. From Venezia to Kathmandu and Journeys In Between Giovanna Caruso The Kalā Salon Chhaya Centre Mall, Thamel Till 12 December 10am- 8pm

Looking at Nepal from Venice

Shantanu Dhakal wakes up to a cold misty dawn, dons his college uniform and fastens his tie, tightening it carefully so as not to dislodge the tracheostomy tube protruding from his throat.
Gingerly, he brushes his teeth, mindful not to hurt the wound on his left cheek, where a bullet tore through during the GenZ protests on 8 September in the highway town of Itahari in eastern Nepal.&nbsp;
Dhakal, 18, came home from college that day three months ago and then took the bus to Itahari to join some friends who were protesting in front of the sub-metropolitan city office. It was mid-afternoon, and the crowd was chanting anti-corruption slogans and holding up placards.
Like most young Nepalis, Dhakal and his friends had been angered by videos on social media of the offspring of Nepal’s rich and powerful flaunting their lavish lifestyles.&nbsp;
"That was the trigger for me to join the protest, it opened my eyes to just how widespread nepotism and corruption was," Dhakal told Nepali Times.&nbsp;
The police arrested a few students, angering the crowd even more. They massed at the gate of a nearby police station to demand their friends be released. &nbsp;
Dhakal was standing across the street from the police station when the first shots rang out. The crowd scattered. As he ran for cover, there was a searing pain in his left jaw. Blood was streaming and it took some time for him to realise he had been shot.&nbsp;
“I was bleeding profusely and couldn’t speak. My vision blurred, there was a ringing in my ears,” Dhakal recalls. “I collected myself and continued to run, fearing that I would be shot a second time.”
Dhakal collapsed some distance away, and a fellow protestor took him to a nearby hospital, where doctors bandaged his jaw. He was referred to Birat Medical Teaching Hospital, where surgeons immediately performed an emergency operation. &nbsp;
The bullet had torn through his left jaw, shattering the bone, teeth, and soft tissue. Blood had rushed into his throat, obstructing the airway so doctors first performed a tracheostomy, installing a tube in his throat to help him keep breathing. A week later, the doctors reconstructed his jaw with metallic plates, grafting skin from his chest and transplanting it to the lower left side of his face.&nbsp;
Dhakal spent three weeks in hospital before being discharged. But the relief of being home was marred by disturbing thoughts. He says, “Just sitting there doing nothing began to take a toll on my mental health.” &nbsp;
Since he was always interested in content creation and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@docsbyshantanu">producing short documentaries</a>, he decided to document online his near-death experience and post-protest life.&nbsp;
Shantanu Dhakal’s Instagram and TikTok <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shantanu__dhakal/">posts are simple, short videos</a> every other day about his treatment process, dressing his wound and cleaning his tracheostomy tube, attending events with others injured during the protests, and scenes from everyday life in his family farm.&nbsp;
The comment section has Nepalis and people from around the world reaching out to ask how he is doing and keeping his spirits up. Dhakal now has a caring social media community, and he uses the platforms to keep in touch with other injured protestors across the country.&nbsp;
Life is returning to a new normal. This week, he returned to college to resume classes after more than two months and is making up for lost time. He has adjusted to speaking and eating with the tube, although the pain never quite goes away.&nbsp;
“I can eat mostly fine, but it is still difficult to speak,” he says. Soon, he will go to hospital for his fortnightly follow-up, and doctors will determine when his tracheostomy tube can be removed.
Like other young Nepalis, Dhakal is now even more politically engaged and actively reads the news of the interim government installed after the GenZ protests.&nbsp;
With the 5 March elections only three months away, young Nepalis like Dhakal hope that the elections will throw out the old and bring in the new. He is among the more than 800,000 new voters who have registered.&nbsp;
“The most important thing is that we have stable government,” he says. “As far as candidates go, an ideal one for me would be a person who prioritises health and education. But if the candidates in my constituency are not up to mark, I may not vote.”
Dhakal along with other injured protesters and relatives of those killed met &nbsp;Energy Minister Kulman Ghising, who has launched his own Ujyalo Nepal Party, and he is cautiously optimistic about the work of the current leadership. &nbsp;
It is a different story in Kathmandu, where Prime Minister Sushila Karki is struggling to manage the expectations of various youth collectives while trying to convince the old parties to participate in elections.&nbsp;
While the UML and NC are actively trying to delegitimise Karki’s government as they prepare to hold their respective general conventions, they are also preparing to give out tickets for elections.&nbsp;
Self-proclaimed GenZ leaders who used Discord to elect Karki prime minister are putting up their own conditions for the polls, even demanding her resignation for failing to meet their demands. This is in sharp contrast to the feelings of many of those injured during the protests who want elections so the nation can heal, and move on.

A new normal

It is quite a feat for just two actors on a darkened stage to hold an audience spellbound for more than one hour. Yet, ‘के? Us.’ at Kausi Theatre does just that. It is a thought-provoking but baffling work that leaves the audience questioning reality, the recurring metaphors in this intriguing and powerful dark comedy haunting us for days afterwards.&nbsp; The unsettling sound of deep breathing mingles with percussive drumming and a driving guitar that pulsates amidst a red glow, dimly illuminating shadowy structures charred by fire. A door leads to what is later revealed to be the ancestral home of two brothers which is ‘under renovation’. One of the brothers Ashim (Bijaya Tamrakar) lives in Nepal caring for a supposedly comatose mother who is only depicted by a tree draped with red LED lights that circulate arterial blood corpuscles. Visiting him is a long-lost brother Aaryan (Eelum Dixit) who has returned (deported?) from America.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The stage is littered with scattered paper trash, a run-down motorcycle chassis, a tattered sofa, and beat-up table and chairs. The stage is set for a sinister plot. Are the characters to be punished in perdition?&nbsp; It does not take long for the audience to grasp that this is an apocalyptic Nepal that, following absurdist traditions, could exist at any time in the future or the present day <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/election-vs-escalation">post-GenZ protest state</a>. Ashim and Aaryan Adhikari have reunited after 15 years. Ashim, the younger brother, has been burdened with the responsibility of taking care of their brain-dead mother. Aaryan, returns after having migrated to the US, where he married, had children, divorced, and lost everything. He has been at “minus 20 and is now back to zero”.&nbsp; The brothers have intense back-and-forths that expose their cynicism, the conversation tangentially alluding to Nepal’s unstable political landscape, migration, an economy in shambles, aging population, alcoholism and other mental health issues. Even the sibling argument about the relative merits of momos and burgers seems metaphorical. The stagecraft uses lighting and sound effects brilliantly, transporting the audience to a surreal world in which Tamrakar and Dixit improvise their lines — no two shows are exactly the same, although the overall plotline has continuity.&nbsp; In the first scene, Aaryan approaches the house tentatively, creeping rodent-like, and carrying a briefcase and an old-fashioned lantern. And at the end, Ashim screams, “I am chaos.” Is this the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end?&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Choas play review"> </figure>  At one point Aaryan seems perturbed by the sound of protest outside (the Gen Z movement?) and the taut atmosphere grips the audience with fear, shock, and apprehension of the recent death and destruction.&nbsp; Throughout the play there is the sound of breathing, as if through a ventilator, a thumping heartbeat, the morbid buzzing of flies and the glowing red LED veins -- signifying the presence of the comatose Aama. She is featured in a prologue-esque home video at the start of the play in which she reminisces about her two sons and rues her failing memory.&nbsp; The sound of breathing gets accentuated each time a brother gets closer to the tree, and it seems to fuel Ashim’s belief that Aama may be brain-dead but she is still among them. This play can go as deep as each individual in the audience wants it to go.&nbsp; The silenced, comatose mother could be Nepali Aama muted by an entrenched patriarchy. Or, she could be the symbol of a helpless country while her children fight over the ruins of what is left. The cake cutting is a delightfully Shakespearean subplot where we wonder if one of the brothers is going to poison, or knife, the other. The message is clear: how can we move forward if it is brother against brother? The stairs signify political transition (elections, constitutional change, new coalitions) promising upward movement, but eventually lead to falls, leaving the nation exactly where it started, or worse. The mother’s terminal illness evokes an ailing state apparatus, hollowed out by corruption and deep-seated social decay. Yet the brothers cling to an irrational hope — instead of confronting the harsh truth and pursuing radical solutions, suggesting a blind faith in the mother.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The brothers are lost. Aaryan climbs up stairs that lead nowhere, Ashim holds on to unrealistic hope that somehow Aama will get better. Tamrakar and Dixit deliver powerful performances, even more remarkable for the fact that they are improvising their lines as they go along. When Aaryan breaks a wall and directly addresses the audience, spectators turn from being passive observers to active participants (‘the society’). The audience then become oglers in this drama, suddenly made self-aware of our role as the scrutinising, cavilling voyeurs that society represents. There is some discomfort of being watched and judged.&nbsp; By asking his brother what he is afraid of while pointing at the audience, Aaryan suggests that the brother's (and perhaps the character's core) fear is not just of the house, or the mother's illness, but of external judgment and societal censure. After the stage goes dark, the applause takes some time. Audience members shuffle out in silence, minds reeling from the collective soul-searching they have just participated in.&nbsp; After ‘के? Us.’ the din at Teku intersection outside sounds different as we wait for our Pathao ride below the खरी tree where <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=Shukra+Raj+Shastri&amp;client=safari&amp;sca_esv=75e8315709cd5118&amp;rls=en&amp;sxsrf=AE3TifMJhwukjdBBT0n4QcQWe8IYSaEVsw%3A1764648053799&amp;ei=dWQuaYbIMOy94-EPn4ygyAE&amp;ved=2ahUKEwiU1ciogp6RAxXq3TQHHeo9LBIQgK4QegQIARAB&amp;uact=5&amp;oq=nepal+tree+where+martyrs+were+hanged&amp;gs_lp=Egxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAiJG5lcGFsIHRyZWUgd2hlcmUgbWFydHlycyB3ZXJlIGhhbmdlZDIIECEYoAEYwwRIug5QAFiNC3AAeAGQAQCYAc4BoAHrCKoBBTAuNS4xuAEDyAEA-AEBmAIDoALlBMICBRAAGO8FmAMA4gMFEgExIECSBwUwLjEuMqAHzw-yBwUwLjEuMrgH5QTCBwcwLjIuMC4xyAcM&amp;sclient=gws-wiz-serp&amp;mstk=AUtExfCLIneLVW3SFBzxBc964wFcTJ936tcAPSDcvNKljck0PIqDJddMZ_t8Pg610M98MCx14aNdnyLHs9QM0jWLhI7JYmkPhugX1ZHfSQvdCHZE9E5m2_ZQY5Jr893UcGjQfpabtA_C48NfB9Pg56uYMOmTtEBEcGuvz3d96Qaifyb86sI8mAkrRNo_367cv_xmFjLZ55iQkfHtORuOvZSUkIdMvAdpweuf4jPjjI4anbv9lc-uCImdP0JSvtvEGL8ePxwsWWOzYpIbjNP1zofjcWXK&amp;csui=3" target="_blank">Shukra Raj Shastri</a> was hanged in 1941 by the Rana regime. Language and Literature Students, 2026.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="1350" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  ‘के? Us.’ Kausi Theatre, Teku Till 7 December (except 2 December) Bookings: +977 9842156109, 9842574607

Staged chaos evokes state of Nepal

This is the 75th 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. My father was a country boy from Sarlahi, and my mother a city girl from Kathmandu. They had an inter-ethnic marriage, which was difficult until the two families gradually began to accept it. My parents, who worked in development, viewed the world through a social lens. They often traveled overseas for their INGO work, leaving me and my sister behind. We spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house, or in rented apartments with guardians. Between Grades 1 and 10, I must have switched schools seven times. Our parents prioritised our education, and enrolled me in the most expensive schools. I was shocked by my school fees, and often wondered how they managed with their salaries.&nbsp; I wanted to become a businessman, so I could have the kind of life some of my well-to-do friend had. My family was not from a business background, and social services didn’t lend themselves to that kind of lifestyle. Now I realise what my parents gave me was already over the top, a truth that becomes clearer as I get older. Our family was getting along fine until our father died while working on a project in Dhading in September 2021. The official reason was ‘heart attack’. We do not talk about this much, perhaps as a way of dealing with the loss.&nbsp; He was our rock, and everything got harder. At least we had good people around us who reminded us to take care of our mother and to work hard. And we did. My sister and I made TikToks during the lockdown, initially in a joint account which reached its peak in 2022-2023. I had always wanted to be an actor, but I knew the film industry does not pay well. My parents also urged me to keep my interest in acting as a passion project. TikTok enabled us to showcase our talent for comedy. We figured out how to crack TikTok’s algorithm and stayed on top of trends. People liked our duo and the raw and authentic content. It required a strategy, luck, planning, and understanding the game.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1778" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  We use a hashtag #NakarmiKhanalAF in all our content drawing from my parents’ last names although they did not need to know what ‘AF’ stood for.&nbsp; My first viral content involving a humorous take on a Marvel character hit over 500k. That fusion combining international trends with Nepali humor worked really well, and I started making it my niche, adapting content.&nbsp; My father was always thick-skinned and did not have to try to be cool or tough. He was unapologetically himself, sometimes to the point where my sister and I felt embarrassed. When he was invited as a chief guest at a cricket game, for example, I remember feeling proud to be the child of an ‘important person’, but he grabbed the mic and told everyone to start cleaning the ground.&nbsp; Many of our friends came from wealthy families because of the schools we attended, and he proudly lectured them about our humble background and the importance of social service. Growing up, we tried hard to get his validity. My proudest moment was gifting him a shirt bought with my first salary. My father did not get to see our rise on social media, but I know he is watching over us just as he always did. The first brand deal I got was memorable but awkward. It was for a grooming package for private parts. I used to think about how movie actors start their journeys with advertisements for underwear, and this was going to be my story, my ‘humble beginning’ as a content creator.&nbsp; They did not even pay me money but just gave me the items. Other brands started coming in and with them, money. I earned as much as Rs40,000 per content and tried to make one every day. This was a big contrast to my monthly salary of Rs35,000 in a clothing store. All along, I was acutely aware that fame would not last forever. Just like one of my singer friends Wangden had said in a podcast: he was going to have fun while fame lasted.&nbsp; After TikTok was banned in India, there was even more uncertainty about social media. The alternates were also not assuring: people running businesses had to close up or were stuck, and the political uncertainty was scary. This pushed me to think about migrating, and Australia was a safe backup. I uploaded content right upto two hours before my flight from Kathmandu. I wanted to have enough savings so I did not have to start working right away in Australia. I was buying freedom. Since I had to change schools frequently, Rodin was one of few enduring friends I had. He was in Australia and assured me that he would take care of everything, and he did. He was my family there, and I did not have to go through the initial struggle that other international students had to endure.&nbsp; In Australia, I have done multiple jobs over the last two years and completed my MBA. My interviewer challenged me to make him laugh with one of my content videos. He did and I started work the very next day though I know I got the job because a hardworking friend had recommended me. To the boss, I was just another Nepali who could work swiftly. I mopped floors, washed dishes, and served customers. This was Australia, and I hustled. But I knew there had to be more to life. The long hours and little sleep eventually caught up with me. One day I slept 14–15 hours straight, and when I woke up, it hit me that I should try networking.&nbsp; I reached out to admins of Australia-based Facebook groups. Some replied, some did not, some offered jobs that were not for me. Then came an email from 8848 Momo House, and I travelled to Brisbane to meet the owner Hom Pyashi.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1548" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  “Do you want momos?” was the first thing he asked warmly. He told me to stop by one of his new outlets and make a video. I did, and I was hired the next day.&nbsp; It was that easy, and I have been working there ever since. My boss would later share in a conversation that he did not hire me because of the video but because I was young and he saw hunger in my eyes. To him, I was clay that he could help shape. I am now the marketing head, and the chain is doing well. Content creation is still a side job that brings in money. But just as my parents said, it remains a side passion.&nbsp; Then came the GenZ protests. On social media I compared Nepal’s youth to relaxed backbenchers who finally act when provoked enough to get things done. I could relate to the rage and suffocation. A song I was featured in was supposed to be released just when social media was banned in Nepal, and that fuelled my anger. But from the onset, I was wary of the headless nature of this movement, there was no ठुलो मान्छे leading and no one would be accountable if something went wrong. There was so much uncertainty, and I am not comfortable with uncertainty. We were glued to social media as the protests happened, at work and in the gym. When we learnt of the deaths of young Nepalis back home, a part of me died. The grief of unexpectedly losing my father came back.&nbsp; I left the gym early because I just could not take it. My friend and I just drove quietly to a nearby waterside. We did not even sit together because neither of us wanted to notice that we were in tears.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  One of the messages I received was a GoFundMe link to support the victims. I shared it, but someone asked if it was genuine. That is when it hit me that I had a large social media following and could not just share things without verifying them. I removed the link. The only person I felt I could trust was myself, so I decided to start my own fundraiser. I felt emotional and helpless, and had to do something.&nbsp; I assumed we could raise around AUD5,000. I was wrong. Within hours, we had raised nearly AUD60,000. Fellow content creators Avash and Manzil from Minority Report had also started a GoFundMe, and we decided to join forces.&nbsp; Partnering with them was going to be a lifesaver because I was not at all prepared for what was ahead. Over 11,000 people contributed across our two campaigns, raising AUD514,386. But we had not thought through the logistical challenge, the online hate and the delays. We needed to release the money to the right organisations in Nepal, get complete information about the families of the martyrs and injured — our primary target groups.&nbsp; We faced a huge amount of backlash after a hate narrative instigated by a few people spread online. We just could not get our message across that it was not as simple as raising the money and handing it over. People believed what they wanted to believe. Internet hate can take you to very dark places, even when you believe in your cause and know it can bring some comfort to grieving families. You try to focus on the positive message, because many people did support us, but the hate and accusations do bring you down.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98.png" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98" data-rendition-name="original" width="1320" height="2868" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  When I was paralysed by the internet hate to carry out even the most mundane activities like cooking and cleaning, my roommate Bibek took over. He even made me watch an episode from the Mahabharat capturing Krishna’s teachings on karma without worrying about the fruits, a lesson that did not just help me get out of that depressive episode but has become a guiding principle for life. How would I have emerged out of that darkness when I was battling with suicidal thoughts if people had not showed up for me? We worked day and night to find the right partners, and because of the large amount of money and the level of transparency we asked for, many influencers or organisations turned us down.&nbsp; This was not easy because we had our own jobs to take care of, our own bills to worry about that were not linked to the fundraiser. It helped that my team at 8848 let me deal with this during work hours, and assured me that they will stand by me no matter what. Thankfully, we finally partnered with Nepal Rising (Daayitwa US), a professional and transparent organisation that stepped in and saved the day. GoFundme finally released the funds to their account and it has begun reaching the right people. My sister helped ensure the money is delivered properly. As a final check, I speak with the families in Nepal and offer my condolences. I honour their loved one’s contribution to our country and we will make sure it is never forgotten. But no matter what we say or how much we try to help, the heartbreaking truth is that their young son or sibling is not coming back. The narrative is slowly changing. Slaps are now claps. But the trauma of the public hate is so great that it still gnaws at me, I have anxiety about attending Nepali gatherings like concerts here. I remember when a dance I had created for Bola Maya went viral on TikTok, with tens of thousands of people picking it up. A chef friend told me it was time to use that influence for a social cause. Those words stayed with me. As I navigated the backlash, I was also reminded of my parents who worked on social causes and asked my mother if they had faced similar cases. She had, and she reminded me that all we can do is stay focused on the cause and drown out the noise. Things will eventually work out.