For a long time, I believed that being able to speak, read, and understand English meant having the power of knowledge. In hindsight, I also realise that if learning English was simply like picking up another language, my journey would have been much smoother and definitely more enjoyable.&nbsp;
I took pride in learning Maithili from my mother and Tharu from my father’s workplace, and those experiences were both fun and fulfilling.
Previous episodes of this column, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi">Angrezi</a>, explain how I struggled with self-doubt, feelings of inferiority, and low self-esteem because of my deficient English language. When I came to the capital, I realised that English held a different significance in this city.&nbsp;
In <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/the-thappad">my village in Sunsari</a>, it was often seen as a way to show off. In Kathmandu, it represented much more than that: it was a source of power, a means of access, and a gateway to opportunities.
During my first visit to Kathmandu in the late 1990s, I listened to a relative unleashing every possible curse word she knew in English to her sister-in-law. That outburst was triggered by the sister-in-law reporting her brother for domestic violence.&nbsp;
I found the sister-in-law to be incredibly courageous in taking that stand. It was also the first time I heard English being spoken among family members within a home, which surprised me. But this family was considered intelligent simply because its members could speak English. Even though I was only 13 at the time, I couldn’t help but question how someone who believed that domestic violence should be hushed up could be considered smart.&nbsp;
When I came to Kathmandu for my Bachelor’s I encountered a few individuals who enjoyed <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/leonardo-and-drew">discussing English films</a>, books, and music, and felt out of place and had little to contribute to the conversations.&nbsp;
At times, I would pretend to engage, while other times I would make excuses to leave early. I also attempted to learn more about the books and films being discussed, but it was exhausting. Despite my silence, I realised that they had information, but lacked deeper understanding.&nbsp;
They seemed captivated by popular music and literature, yet did not grasp the underlying messages those songs and books conveyed. Throughout my nearly year-long <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/from-humiliation-to-humility">work experience at a school library</a>, I remembered there was only one parent who visited. Not a single parent inquired about the types of books their children were reading or what genres excited their interest.&nbsp;
Their primary concern revolved around their child’s English proficiency. Many expressed frustration over their children’s struggle with the language, feeling embarrassed when their children could not communicate effectively in front of relatives and friends.&nbsp;
I recall Wangdi Sir saying that a school is not a language institute. A child may struggle with English, but they may excel in other subjects like science and math. Unfortunately, he struggled to persuade parents who had invested thousands in the hope that their children achieved fluency that it was not that important.&nbsp;
I encountered similar attitudes among parents across the country over the years. Many had moved from rural areas to cities, working tirelessly abroad to afford to send their children to English medium schools. There was also a noticeable bias, as families often prioritised sending sons to these more expensive schools and not their girls.
No wonder, society considers those who can speak English as intelligent, smart, or even a genius. To be sure, mastery of the English language can unlock a wealth of knowledge and provide opportunities for employment worldwide.&nbsp;
However, many do not understand that simply speaking English is not equal to intelligence, if one lacks access to enriching content in literature, art, music, or film. Ultimately, it is an individual’s upbringing, socialisation, choices, and the guidance they receive that plays a crucial role in knowledge and wisdom through English.&nbsp;
The English language is often misinterpreted as a sign of knowledge, not just in Nepal but in other developing countries where education is sometimes prioritised for language skills over true learning.
Ramesh Kumar, an economic journalist with Himalkhabar.com, recently shared on X that Nepali press releases from the World Bank and UN agencies in Kathmandu read like they were Google translated. He noted that hiring communications officers should not solely depend on their proficiency in English, they should also be skilled in the local language.&nbsp;
Relying on Google Translate or AI without understanding the context can lead to lots of embarrassing misunderstandings. Ultimately, all languages serve as tools for expression, but the messages conveyed can vary greatly.
My 5-year-old niece was already speaking English fluently even before she started pre-school. She lives in the village with my parents, where English is rarely spoken unless absolutely necessary. Yet, she picked up the language as if she had grown up in an English-speaking environment.&nbsp;
How did this happen? The secret was her love for cartoons, which she only watches in English. She has been learning both Nepali and English simultaneously, much like I did with Nepali and Maithili. I often wonder how her understanding of being a person, a woman, and a citizen will develop.&nbsp;
Language alone will not shape those identities. I hope we, as Nepalis, can grasp this concept. I also wish that our education system would instill in our children the values of humanity, equality, diversity, and not consider someone ‘civilised’ just because they can rattle off some English.
Anbika Giri is a novelist and author of children’s books in Nepali. Angrezi is her monthly column in Nepali Times about learning English in Nepal.

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English is not the be-all and end-all

Samjhana and I landed together at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport one afternoon in December 2009. Samjhana was greeting everyone as “Sir” or “Madam”, and I started to do the same. However, when she called the taxi driver “Sir”, I could not help but ask why she was using those titles for everyone, making it feel like she was addressing government secretaries back home in Nepal.&nbsp; She explained that Nairobi was colonised by the British, who like the Sir/Madam form of address. It was the first time I realised that learning a language involves more than just memorising new words, pronunciation, idioms, and phrasal verbs. I understood that it also includes learning about the culture associated with the language. I went to Kenya as a participant in the FK Exchange program (now known as Norec Exchange) for a year. Initially, there was a preparatory course which introduced us to the culture, food, and communities of the African continent.&nbsp; During the preparatory course, I was accompanied by Samjhana. It was the first time for both of us to be constantly surrounded by the English language. Throughout the day, we made an effort to speak in English and even tried to speak English like the Kenyans did. But at night we relaxed by speaking in Nepali until late. Since I was hosted by a Kenyan organisation, Association of Media Women in Kenya (AMWIK) we visited their office where an Ethiopian woman also joined us. Lillian, who would be my manager, introduced us to the Director of AMWIK. During the introduction, she pointed out that the Ethiopian woman’s English was excellent even though Ethiopia was never colonised by Britain. I mentioned that Nepal also was never colonised, but Lillian ignored that remark. In fact, she gave me a strange look, as if to say directly to my face: “No wonder your English is not fluent.”&nbsp; This made me even more determined to improve my English language skills. When our exchange program started in January, Samjhana went to Uganda. I was left on my own. I needed to become better at both English and Swahili because we were going to the outskirts of Nairobi. I realised that not all Kenyans speak English, even in Nairobi. Although my teacher, Chacha, was a good language instructor, there were times when I wanted to escape the city where I was supposed to master Swahili in English simultaneously.&nbsp; I have to admit that I was not very serious about learning Swahili. Instead, I took advantage of Chacha’s excellent English. He pointed out that I struggled to distinguish between ‘sh’ and ‘s’ sounds, which I knew was a challenge for most native Nepali speakers. Chacha also used English to educate me on topics like different sexualities, why Kenya still upheld the polygamy law, the ethnic conflict of 2008, and the cultural influences left behind by the British.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241015151024_7d49c7be36a8e99f3d1a89d35f6835b3778d075111b992863fb8e8bcc91454bd.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241015151024_7d49c7be36a8e99f3d1a89d35f6835b3778d075111b992863fb8e8bcc91454bd" data-rendition-name="original" width="4000" height="3000" loading="lazy" alt="Nepalin in Kenya"> <figcaption>Giri by the beach in Mombasa, Kenya. Photo courtesy: ANBIKA GIRI</figcaption> </figure>  As I was assigned with media monitoring for the Truth, Justice, and Reconciliation Commission (TJRC), Chacha assisted me in understanding key terms such as rule of law, impunity, reconciliation, and grievances. I could see he had given up on my Swahili. Even though I made mistakes, I stopped being embarrassed by it. One day I was stuck in traffic for almost two hours, and I texted Lillian: ‘I am jammed. I will be late.’&nbsp; She responded: ‘Great, we have it with some bread.’&nbsp; By the time I reached the office I knew I had made a language gaffe, and Lillian taught me how to say ‘stuck in traffic’, and not ‘jammed’. Such language mis-steps happened regularly in a country where English was not the mother tongue for any of us, but it was the only common language we had.&nbsp; Once, when we were out in the field, it was 3PM and we had not had lunch yet. We walked to the restaurant, and Lillian said she was “starving”. There was starvation in parts of Africa, but I found out that was not what she meant, and I asked her why she was not hungry.&nbsp; She laughed aloud at my lack of vocabulary, and joked: “I am hungry enough to eat a horse, Anbika.” I once believed that all Africans and white people only spoke English. But when I arrived in Kenya, I realised that not all Kenyans speak English. It took me a while to also realise that not all white people speak English, either.&nbsp; An Italian documentary maker yelled at me for not following his instructions. “Anbika, I is telling you, listen to what I is saying,” he said in a thick Italian accent that bulldozed through English syntax. &nbsp; Whether or not I was fluent in English, I had to speak it because I had no other choice. This encouraged me to learn from them and take risks with the language and not be worried about making mistakes.&nbsp; Coming from a country that was not colonised, most people were understanding and supportive of my effort to speak English. They would not make fun of me if I made mistakes, and instead help me get the grammar or pronunciation right.&nbsp;

‘Jammed’ and ‘starved’ in Kenya

“Did you know this interview was supposed to be in English?” he asked with a smile. I reciprocated, although it was clear that his smile conveyed a sense of pity towards me. My smile, on the other hand, was more an expression of private shame.
I was being interviewed for the position of librarian at a residential English-medium school by the Managing Director. His personality was domineering: tall, well-built, and a pony tail.&nbsp;
I knew some of the questions he asked would be in English, but did not realise that I had to respond entirely in English too. I had some basic English language communication skills, but I was not fluent at the time.&nbsp;
“How are you planning to get by here? You clearly cannot speak the language, and our working language is English,” he said looking me directly in the eye. This interview was starting to scare me.
“म कथा भन्न सक्छु,” I blurted out in Nepali, trying to salvage my job prospect by highlighting my story-telling skills.“Okay. एउटा कथा सुनाउ,” he replied, as if to put me at ease. I immediately launched into a children’s story that had recently been published in Kopila, Kantipur’s school supplement.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/journalism-is-all-about-storytelling-and-money">Journalism is all about storytelling (and money)</a>
The story was about a letter that transformed the life of a girl with low self-esteem. She had felt unappreciated by everyone until the letter arrived from a dentist whom she had earlier helped by giving directions. The letter thanked her for being so helpful, and expressed how proud her mother must be for having such a smart daughter.&nbsp;
Despite my lack of English, the Managing Director must have found the story and my narration compelling. I got the job, but on probation and with condition attached: “You’re on your own. If you can’t connect with the students within a month, you’ll be let go.”&nbsp;
I started my job at the school library in 2006 just as the students were getting ready for their three-week summer break. Excitement and English chatter filled the air, but I could not quite follow what they were saying. They were too preoccupied with their vacation to notice me.&nbsp;
The library itself was a disaster zone. Books were scattered everywhere. And even though I had no prior knowledge of library management, I tried to bring some order into the chaos.&nbsp;
I was a voracious reader, but most of the books were in English and I felt overwhelmed. I dedicated long hours at the library, sometimes working late into the night. My goal was to familiarise myself with every single book in the stacks before the school year began, hoping to impress the students.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/read-and-let-read">Read and let read</a>, Anil Chitrakar
The holidays were coming to an end, and I felt the pressure mounting. Searching for a solution to ensure a smooth start, I came up with what I figured was a brilliant plan to convene a meeting with class captains before opening the library for all students. My reasoning was that if they were on board with enforcing library rules, the rest of the students would follow.
I was working late, and the Managing Director looked in, noticing the lights were still on. He seemed pleased to find the library in perfect condition, the books all organised.&nbsp;
“Don’t work late, a <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/nepal-brings-back-the-snow-leopard">leopard</a> may show up,” he said.&nbsp;
“Really? A लियोपार्ड?” I gasped, pronouncing it ‘Leo-Pard’. “Yes, तर लियोपार्ड हैन लेपर्ड चाहिँ आउँछ and they will chew you up,” he said, chuckling, and pronouncing the word leopard properly.Embarrassed, I corrected myself, silently repeating the correct pronunciation of लेपर्ड. I only understood later that he was jokingly referring to children chewing me out, not an actual leopard. This humiliation destroyed my confidence, and I lost the confidence to engage in conversation, even in Nepali.
Read also:<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/mai-commin-sir-qfdjg2uw"> "Mai commin, Sir?"</a>, Anbika Giri
The students returned and were informed about their meeting with the new Library Miss. There were two captains each from Class 4-10, and one school captain, totaling 13. I thought I was fully prepared, and it all began well.&nbsp;
But the assertiveness of the students and their fluency in English caught me completely off guard, and I fumbled for English words as my vocabulary vanished. Till this day, I feel the sweat on my forehead.
At first the class captains were taken aback, some attempted to correct my pronunciation, and then their giggling erupted into uncontrollable laughter. I could not bear the failure, and switched to Nepali but my confidence was shattered. I was not getting through at all. They walked away, making fun of my English pronunciation in a loud voice just to make sure I heard them.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/hi-hee-and-haha-hihi">Hi-Hee and Haha-Hihi</a>, Anbika Giri
Deflated, I also felt embarrassed in front of the teachers, fearing that the students may have mocked me. They insisted I speak to them in English. I avoided making eye contact and interacting with the students, I hardly spoke to the teachers, and if I did it was in Nepali.
After two months, Wangdi Sir noticed my silence. He was an English teacher from Kalimpong and was rigorous yet popular among students. He stood out among his colleagues as one of the few who preferred to spend time in the library, engrossed in reading.
One day, he asked me why I was so quiet. I shared my story, unburdening myself. He chuckled initially, but offered practical tutorials about<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/why-do-so-many-nepali-students-underperform"> handling students </a>in English with sentences like “Why don’t you try the fiction section?” or “May I help you find your book?”
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/learning-about-teaching">Learning about teaching</a>, Prakriti Kandel
Before Wangdi Sir’s help, whenever a student requested a book I would simply get it and hand it over to them without uttering a single word. Wangdi Sir taught me that recognising weakness was the first step in overcoming it. Steadily, my confidence level improved, and I started to build rapport with students. Whenever I mispronounced something, I would politely ask them to correct me.
My eight-month tenure transitioned from a state of humiliation to a one of humility. This was when my interest in children’s literature blossomed, and the library gave me a deeper understanding of the students’ perspectives and interests.&nbsp;
Anbika Giri is a novelist and author of children’s books in Nepali. Angrezi is her monthly column in Nepali Times about learning English in Nepal. Find her previous columns <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi">here</a>.

From humiliation to humility

Autobooks were popular at our school. They were diaries where friends could jot down something, creating a lifelong memory. It was customary for friends to stick photos in each other’s photobooks, so we could look at their faces whenever we missed them.&nbsp;
Back in the 2000s, we students knew that we would eventually have to part ways. Some of us, mostly girls, would get married, others would leave the village to pursue higher education, and some would start working.
We were convinced that after completing our SLC, it would be nearly impossible to reunite with school friends. This was before Facebook.
Filled with overwhelming emotions, we yearned for a tangible keepsake of our time together. Filling an autobook and having one filled was truly special. We poured our hearts out, expressing how our school life was coming to an end and how the new world awaiting us would never be the same.&nbsp;
We wished our friends the very best in their future endeavours and humbly asked for forgiveness if we had ever hurt them. We even included some heartfelt shayari verses, along with our favourite food, name, place, actor, actress, movie, dress, and even surnames.
In the initial trimester of Class 10 we were engrossed in writing for friends and requesting them to return to write in our autobooks. The task of choosing the most captivating photo for the autobook posed quite a challenge. After all, it was supposed to last a lifetime.
My elder sister only made her autobook when she was in her +2 when I was in Class 7. Since she had attended an English medium school until Grade 6, her English was good. Additionally, living in Biratnagar, the biggest city I knew back then, she naturally wrote the autobook in English.&nbsp;
Everything she wrote was original, she knew the meaning of every word. Following her example, my other sisters also wrote the autobook in English. Both had copied our elder sister. When my turn came, I naturally followed suit.&nbsp;
We not only copied the format but also the best actor, actress, movie, and everything else. We used to believe that whatever our elder sister liked must be likeable and unique.
Her favourite actor was <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000138/">Leonardo DiCaprio</a>, the actress was <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000106/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1">Drew Barrymore</a>, and the movie was Titanic. They became our favourites too, although we had no idea who the two were or what <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120338/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0_tt_8_nm_0_q_titanic">Titanic</a> was all about. But we trusted her taste. If she admired them, they must be truly remarkable.&nbsp;
It seemed that my friends shared the same sentiment, as they too copied Leo and Drew as their favourites actor and actress. Although we had different preferences when it came to Nepali and Indian actors, Leo and Drew were the common Hollwood choices.
I first learned about Titanic during my college years and saw the movie in 2008. Before that, I had already watched another film starring DiCaprio, <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0450259/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">Blood Diamond</a>, in 2007. While I enjoyed both movies, my favourite actor at the time was <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000158/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1">Tom Hanks</a>. I discovered Tom before Leo, but somehow I completely forgot about Drew.
I have a problem with English films. I can easily remember the plot, but I cannot put a name to the actors. The same goes for songs - I could recognise the tune, but could not remember the singer’s &nbsp;name. I am better now, but still struggle to remember their names.&nbsp;
Five years ago, I googled Drew Barrymore, and can you believe it: I had actually watched two of her movies multiple times on DVD, ’<a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0343660/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">50 First Dates</a>’ and ‘<a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0160127/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0_tt_8_nm_0_q_Charlie%27s%2520Angels">Charlie's Angels</a>’. I had even seen her in ‘Music and Lyrics’, but I had no idea that she was the Drew Barrymore who was my sister’s favourite and through her mine, and the favourite of the entire class. I wonder if Leo and Drew are still favourites of any of my friends or even my sisters?&nbsp;
While moving flats in Kathmandu multiple times, I misplaced my autobook. It would be fascinating to revisit our autobooks, and to see how our preferences have evolved over time. Some were altered as we discovered better options, while others were modified as our understanding improved.
Anbika Giri is a novelist and author of children’s books in Nepali. Angrezi is her monthly column in Nepali Times about learning English in Nepal. See her previous columns <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/hi-hee-and-haha-hihi">here</a>.

Leonardo and Drew

In this episode of my series Angrezi, let me share two other interesting encounters I had with English before diving into Ryan’s story. The saga of my own English learning experience.
My uncle decided to open an English medium school in Madhesa of Sunsari district, which was the first of its kind in our village. The school was named Bright Future English School, and caused quite a stir even before it officially opened.
People were intrigued by the word ‘Future’, and the meaning of ‘Bright’ eluded them. One morning, while sipping tea at Bahadurni Thuli Ama’s tea shop, my uncle’s friends could not contain their curiosity any longer, and asked him the meaning of ‘Bright’.
Instead of giving a direct answer, my uncle gave them a clue by asking why the toothpaste brand at the time, ‘Brighter’ was so named. Suddenly, it all made sense to them, including the significance of ‘a bright future’.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/why-do-so-many-nepali-students-underperform">Why do so many Nepali students underperform?</a>, Anita Shrestha
The next incident still gives me a good laugh whenever I remember it. Not far from our village was another English medium school called The Martyr School. We youngsters used to jokingly refer to it as “Damatar, Tamatar”. It was only much later that I finally understood the meaning of ‘martyr’.
The recent Hindi movie 12th Fail tells the true story of Manoj Kumar Sharma, who passed India’s UPSC (like Nepal’s own Public Service Commission) exam and eventually became a police officer on his fourth attempt. There is a scene in the movie where he confidently writes an essay about terrorism from memory during the English exam, only to find out later that the question was actually about tourism.
I can perfectly relate to that feeling. During one exam I remember composing an answer about ‘The Mothers of Nepal’ when the question was actually asking us to write about ‘The Martyrs of Nepal’. Embarrassing.
Now, the story of Ryan. In Grade 9, our English teacher told us the sad story of Ryan who said bye to his mother and hopped on a motorcycle even though he was underage and did not have a driving license. The mother knew this, and told him to drive safely. &nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/learning-rubbish-memorising-gibberish">Learning rubbish, memorising gibberish</a>, Yugottam Koirala and Yugeshwor Koirala
A few hours later, she got a call from the police. Ryan had been in an accident. She rushed to the hospital, but Ryan did not make it. After his tragic death, the mother felt immense regret and blamed herself for not stopping him. She constantly thinks about him, imagining that one day he will step in through the door with a cheerful “Hi, Mom!”
The moral of the story: do not drive without a license. Our English teacher narrated the story in Nepali, and to add a touch of humour, he changed Ryan’s name to Ram Bahadur. I can still vividly recall him narrating to the class: "उस्कै आमालाई लागि रहन्छ कि राम बाहादुर घर आउँछ हाई मोम, म आएँ भन्दै” (His &nbsp;mother felt Ryan would come back, saying “Hi Mom, I’m home”).
But when he said “Hi” he did not pronounce it /haɪ/, he said it like “hee”. And guess what? Thenceforth we all copied the way he said “hee” when he meant “hi”, repeating “हि मोम, म घर आएँ”.&nbsp;
Back in school, we never greeted our friends, so I did not use the word “Hi” to greet friends till college. If only we had the same chapter in Grade 10, then Thoo Sir would have taught us properly. I finally learned the correct pronunciation, but it did bring some embarrassment.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-hard-working-students-overseas">Nepal’s hard working students overseas</a>, Sonia Awale
I enrolled at Janata Multiple College in Itahari for Proficiency Certificate Level, with English as one of my majors. Being the last student to join, I was new to everyone. As a major in English, when people approached me, they naturally said “Hi, I am phalano” or “Hi, I am dhiskano”. I reciprocated in the same manner. The only difference was in how they pronounced “Hi” and my response was always “Hee, I am Anbika”. I did not understand why they would always giggle when I said that.
A new friend of mine tried to correct me, but out of habit I continued with my “Hee” until our first-year English major teacher, Kedar Sir, overheard me one day in class saying, “Hee, I am Anbika”. He corrected me in front of the entire class. “Anbika, it is /haɪ/, हि भन्न कल्ले सिकायो?” (Who taught you to say Hee?) he exclaimed so loudly that even students dozing off at the back woke up.
To be honest, it had never occurred to me that even teachers could make mistakes till that moment. I was a little embarrassed. The embarrassment was manageable, but it led me to a state of utter confusion. Suddenly, I began doubting every English pronunciation I had ever learnt in school till then from teachers I had admired. I assumed that Kedar Sir, being an English major teacher at college, must have a stronger command of the language than my high school teacher. Thus, I decided to follow Kedar Sir to unlearn what I learnt in school.
That day, I did not tell Kedar Sir where I got the funny pronunciation from. I later discovered that all my friends had some issues with English since we all came from the same school background where English was taught in Nepali.
Back in the early 2000s, English was not as important as it is today. It did not open up job opportunities, or help navigate work abroad. People who tried to sprinkle English words while speaking Nepali were regarded as show-offs. Twenty years later, English proficiency is given much more importance and we have come a long way. &nbsp;
Anbika Giri is a novelist and author of children’s books in Nepali. Angrezi is her monthly column in Nepali Times about learning English in Nepal. Her previous columns were <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/mai-commin-sir-qfdjg2uw">Mai Commin, Sir</a> and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/the-thappad">Thappad</a>.&nbsp;

Hi-Hee and Haha-Hihi

Thick-framed glasses, a wide nose, and a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. A front curl peeked out of his cap if he missed his haircut. He wore a full-sleeved shirt and cotton trousers.
His appearance was unremarkable, lacking the fashion sense of the stylish Dharan people of the day. He seemed like a tired, middle-aged man by the end of class, covered in chalk dust. He was easily overlooked until he spoke English because his English was impossible to ignore.
This man was dealing with a significant issue. He wanted to teach English in English, while we students preferred learning English in Nepali. His pronunciation was different from other English teachers, causing students to struggle to understand him. They started calling him Thoo Sir because they heard ‘to’ (/tu:/) as ‘thoo’ (ठू), but no one knows who first started this nickname or when it began. No one knew where he acquired his accent from, either.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/class-differences">Class differences</a>, Rabin Giri
Every morning, the bus would drop him off at Ghopali Tol from Dharan around 9AM, and he would walk 12 minutes to school from there. Students would have to interact with him in English or listen to a kind of English they could not understand.
I had heard his infamous nickname long before I attended Thulo School, the only secondary school in the village, after passing out from the primary Sano School.
He never inflicted any physical punishment on us, however his frustration was harder to handle. He would say things that friends could use to mock and tease fellow classmates.
Students would dread his presence in the classroom because unlike other teachers who would read slowly and explain in Nepali, he insisted on speaking English correctly and would not let us off the hook until we did so as well.
I only had him as a teacher in my Grade 10 class, and I remember being late on the very first day. "Mai commin, Sir?" I asked from the door.
"Ask properly," he replied, without even looking at me.
I asked again, but he continued cleaning the blackboard without paying any attention to me.
"Sir, Mai commin?" I changed the word order.
"Repeat after me," he instructed. That day, I learnt for the first time that 'Mai commin' was actually 'May I come in?'
"You don't even know basic English? Silly girl!" he said, and of course, my friends teased me for a long time about that.
His dissatisfaction with a student’s pronunciation silenced the class. While I was usually vocal and asked questions in other subjects, I could not utter a word in his class for fear of being ridiculed again.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/lowest-common-denominator">Lowest common denominator</a>, Editorial
I would formulate questions in my mind but struggle to voice them. Sometimes, I would start in English and end up speaking in Nepali, which would upset him even more.
He would not engage in conversations in Nepali, preferring to explain things in English. His excessive use of English gave us all chronic headache.
One day, in the middle of class, I asked in Nepali, "Thoo Sir, my pad is leaking. I will go home, change, and come back in five minutes."
"What did you just say?" he asked in English, lowering his reading glasses, revealing a pair of tired eyes, and a bruise on the bridge of his nose caused by the weight of the frame.
<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/that-time-of-the-month">Sanitary napkins</a> were not yet available, so we sisters would have to run to my nearby home to use one of our mother's old cotton saris as pads. But these were not absorbent enough for heavy bleeding. There was no door or roof in the school toilet, making it impossible to change at school.
I never felt embarrassed about asking to be excused, and neither the teachers nor students used to make a big deal out of it. Since he had responded to my Nepali, I assumed his 'WHAT?' was in response to my request to go home to change my pad.
I repeated my request, this time to assure him that I would return in exactly five minutes. But his "What did you just call me?" was actually about my publicly addressing him as “Thoo Sir”.&nbsp;
My bench-mate Bishal tried to warn me to keep quiet. But I continued, "Thoo sir. Everyone calls you Thoo sir behind your back. Don't you know?"
"I know but no one said it to my face before."
Quickly correcting myself, I said, "BB Sir, please allow me to go home. I won't address you as Thoo Sir anymore."
"Thoo Sir again," he chuckled, lightly tapping my head with the book in his hand. "Go on, run!"
All these years later, I realised that it took a lot of effort for him to respond the way he did. Unlike other teachers who only focused on the top students, he would treat all students equally, change the seating arrangement, shifting students from the front to the back.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/learning-rubbish-memorising-gibberish">Learning rubbish, memorising gibberish</a>, Yugottam Koirala and yugeshwor Koirala
After leaving school and moving to Kathmandu, I began learning English and found the language fascinating. It took years to overcome my hesitation, but I eventually understood why Thoo Sir insisted on teaching English in English. I wished he had been more creative in making us appreciate the language and understand its importance.
We used to believe that Thoo Sir had the best English in the world and was forcing fluency on us when all we needed was 32 marks to pass. There was not much interest in learning English in those days.
Thoo Sir was ahead of his time in grasping the importance of a global language. He knew there was a world beyond our village of Madhesha and the SLC exams. He was not interested in our exam marks, he only wished us to understand English in English. And today, I am glad we had Thoo Sir as our English teacher.
Anbika Giri is a novelist and author of children’s books in Nepali. Angrezi is her monthly column in Nepali Times about learning English in Nepal. Her previous column was <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/angrezi/the-thappad">Thappad.</a>
&nbsp;

"Mai commin, Sir?"

This piece is not about Tapasi Pannu’s Bollywood movie, Thappad. But the echo of that slap from childhood still echoes in my ear.&nbsp;
It was the first and only time my father ever laid a hand on me. It could happen again, since Nepali parents have a tendency to believe that no matter how old you are, you are always a child. They can hit you even in your 30s.&nbsp;
My father, a retired high school principal, seldom raised his voice at us while we were growing up. His silence and stern gaze were nevertheless frightening to us youngsters, and struck fear in our hearts.&nbsp;
As children, we never dared speak to him directly. Our mother acted as an intermediary, even in trivial matters like buying a ball-point pen for Rs4.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/why-do-so-many-nepali-students-underperform">Why do so many Nepali students underperform?</a>, Anita Shrestha
This was the 1990s, and we all excelled in studies. We were disciplined children who never uttered a curse word. We respect our elders. We were the epitome of well-behaved children.
So imagine our shock when I was subjected to physical punishment from my father for the first time. And it all had to do with my use, or misuse, of the English language.
We started learning English in Grade 4. I had topped not only my &nbsp;class, but the entire school. I could recite what was on any page in my text book. I had a photographic memory.&nbsp;
I excelled not only in academics, but also in General Knowledge. I could rattle off all the countries of South Asia and their capitals and heads of state.&nbsp;
My sister and I were the only two students in our class who had mastered the multiplication table up to 20. One day, our primary school principal announced that only students who knew the table up to 20 could go home, while the rest had to stay back and keep learning until they did. My sister and I found ourselves waiting until evening for our classmates to catch up.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/after-quantity-nepals-education-needs-quality">After quantity, Nepal's education need quality</a>, Prakriti Kandel
I was 9, and also starting to learn to spell simple English words. I took immense pride in my progress because my grandfather did as well. However, it wasn't enough for my father.
That day, I was doing my English homework, while my father and his colleagues were engrossed in a political conversation. One of his colleagues suddenly asked, "Which grade are you in?"
"Fourth," I replied proudly.
He continued, "What is your roll number?" (Ah, the roll number, a prestigious measure of talent in those times.)
"One," I answered confidently.
He then asked me to recite the multiplication tables for 7, 9, 13, 17, and 19. Which I did, and I noticed my father’s eyes gleaming with pride.
My father’s other friend was also interested and asked me what I was writing.&nbsp;
When I responded “English”, he asked me to write out the lowercase alphabet — widely regarded as the more challenging aspect of English writing. I guess he was trying to confirm if I truly deserved the Roll Number 1 position.&nbsp;
To everyone's surprise, I swiftly wrote out the lower case alphabets from a-z. Satisfied, he was about to return to the political conversation when my father abruptly asked me, "Can you spell 'dog' for Uncle?"
“I can,” I said. “D-O-G,”
"And how about 'god'?" my father pressed on. I spelled god, and everyone was impressed.
Then my father asked me to spell ‘bag’. In those days, children attending <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/ministry-of-education-gets-an-f">government schools</a> in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-marginalised-on-the-margins">rural Madhes</a> had to carry our books cradled in our left hands. Sometimes, they held the books tightly against their chest with both hands, like parents carrying a child.&nbsp;
School bags were fancy and rare. Only private school students had bags. You could be sure a student carrying a school bag, wearing shoes and a tie would be attending a private school.&nbsp;
I had never carried a school bag, and did not know how to spell it. I looked up at the ceiling and squirmed, and my father’s eyes widened. The lines on his forehead showed disappointment.&nbsp;
It must have been less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity. The more time I took, the more they saw me as unworthy of having Roll Number 1. To escape my predicament, I blurted out: “B-O-G."&nbsp;
That was it. My father rose from his stool and slapped me on my face. No one stopped him. His colleagues tried to console me by urging me to study harder.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/learning-rubbish-memorising-gibberish">Learning rubbish, memorising gibberish</a>, Yugottam Koirala and Yugeshwor Koirala
I was in shock. I had never imagined that my father would ever hit me. The slap did not just hurt me physically, but left a deep emotional scar. I fell ill with a fever that evening, and everyone knew the reason.
No one said a word to my father. My grandfather consoled me, but said that I needed to study even more diligently. As if I had not been studying diligently before.&nbsp;
I have hated the English language ever since. I never dedicated myself to learning English properly in class. And I hated English even more after we had Thoo (ठू) Sir. But that is a story for some other time.

Anbika Giri

The Thappad

Fenerbahçe Beko won the Turkish Airlines EuroLeague finals in Abu Dhabi, held 23-25 May, defeating Monaco 81-70 in the final. Olympiacos, who defeated Panathinaikos 97-93, finished the series in third place. The Most Valuable Player (MVP) of the final match, Nigel Hayes-Davis from Fenerbahçe Beko, received a prize of 1,000,000 Miles&amp;Smiles from Turkish Airlines’ Chief Commercial Officer Ahmet Olmuştur. The carrier has been the title sponsor of the Turkish Airlines EuroLeague, a top tier tournament, since 2010.

Turkish Basketball

In the black and white photograph, General Wangdu smiles broadly in front of the dusty cactus garden in Kathmandu’s Annapurna Hotel. With an ill-fitting jacket and shaggy hair he looks benign enough, but this was the last leader of the Tibetan freedom fighters who led the resistance against the Chinese from their remote mountain hideouts in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/comings-and-goings-in-mustang">Mustang</a>. Five months later, Wangdu was dead. Snapped in March 1974, I had only recently arrived in Nepal. How did I meet this legendary fighter? Possibly with his devoted camp follower, Lynne Klapecki, and probably in the Om Restaurant near Freak Street which was the preferred <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/hippie-trail-nostalgia-in-kathmandu">hippie hang-out</a>. Om Lobsang and his brother Yeshe were <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/page/earthquake-brings-back-memories-of-camps-for-tibetan-refugees">refugees from East Tibet </a>whose cafe offered a friendly welcome and<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/momo-loco"> the best momos</a> - they became my in-laws after I married their eldest brother Tenzin, but that was a decade later.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025052403054_4573b34282b0f5395c007243d6bef12c7ba76bfd520419e994cdcea048d795a1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="2025052403054_4573b34282b0f5395c007243d6bef12c7ba76bfd520419e994cdcea048d795a1" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1583" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> <figcaption>Photo: LISA CHOEGYAL</figcaption> </figure>  Wangdu’s English was enthusiastically rudimentary, but even riding around town with him on the back of an aging <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/kathmandu-s-new-motorbike-museum">motorbike</a>, he was a commanding presence. Always flanked by armed outriders, impressive scars marked his forearms and a pistol hung from the cord around his neck. A charismatic guerrilla leader, Wangdu was celebrated by his followers for his tough commitment and respected for his measured pragmatism. He seemed so young to have shouldered such a responsibility of command, leading hundreds of hardened <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/50-years-after-the%20raid-into-Tibet,1012#google_vignette">Khampa combatants </a>through what had been a particularly <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/heavy-snowfall-over-nepal-himalaya">brutal winter in Mustang</a>, the last bastion to hold out against the Chinese invasion of their Tibetan homeland.&nbsp; The freedom fighters of Tibet, known as the Chushi-Gangdruk, had emerged to resist the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/territorialism">Chinese takeover</a> of Tibet during the 1950s. Estimated to be 80,000-strong at the time of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/what-or-who-after-the-dalai-lama">the Dalai Lama</a>’s final escape to India in 1959, the sheer number of Chinese deployed into Tibet eventually forced the Chushi-Gangdruk to retreat to Mustang, From this high Himalayan stronghold, they continued cross-border raids on the Chinese People’s Liberation Army (PLA) throughout the 1960s.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025052403054_8a4a935ba25ae79dc3a63bb5c14626927020e5ec098093c45ccb9a5982e009fd.jpg" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="2025052403054_8a4a935ba25ae79dc3a63bb5c14626927020e5ec098093c45ccb9a5982e009fd" data-rendition-name="original" width="1114" height="676" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> <figcaption>Guerrillas known as the Chushi-Gangdruk emerged to resist the Chinese annexation of Tibet during the 1950s. Photo courtesy: MIKEL DUNHAM</figcaption> </figure>  Their Kathmandu base was a small discreet lodge in a back lane near Rani Pokhari. Sipping sweet tea from a blue mug with a chipped lid, I sat bemused in a corner of the Mustang Hotel room whilst Wangdu and his cohorts received a battered brown suitcase from their CIA connection, a tousle-haired American in a leather jacket. Heaved onto the dingy bedspread that covered the thin mattress, it was clicked open to reveal piles of neatly stacked dollar bills.&nbsp; I cannot think why Wangdu allowed me to witness this handover but I was clearly no threat, a newly arrived world traveller with no understanding of the stakes nor any Nepali or <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/tibetan-music-in-nepals-sacred-valley">Tibetan language</a>. Despite armed guards in the corridor,Wangdu radiated confidence and bravado, and there was a practiced familiarity to the tense transaction. This deadly dance for many years had been funded by the Americans, tolerated by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-kingdom-within-a-republic">Mustang’s residents</a>, and permitted by King Mahendra and the Nepali authorities who it suited to turn a blind eye.&nbsp; But Mahendra died in 1972, and times were changing. Richard Nixon’s ping-pong diplomacy thawed the cold war and signalled a fresh entente with China. Nepal’s yet-to-be-crowned <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/if-birendra-was-alive-nepal-could-still-be-a-monarchy">King Birendra </a>was under pressure to curb the irritating incursions against the PLA launched from the Nepali territory of Mustang. Keen to appease his northern neighbour, on several occasions the King summoned Wangdu for peace talks but, despite increasingly overwhelming odds, Wangdu refused to surrender.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025052403054_a8efd5cfb92cd997bd7cb74296a936fef46e2f7428f9cd642b03f1ac4ea11ecb.jpg" data-media-id="editor_14" data-image-id="2025052403054_a8efd5cfb92cd997bd7cb74296a936fef46e2f7428f9cd642b03f1ac4ea11ecb" data-rendition-name="original" width="1055" height="885" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> <figcaption>General Wangdu flanked by two Tibetan resistance fighters in Mustang in the 1970s. Photo courtesy: MIKEL DUNHAM</figcaption> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025052403054_75969125a745847a2ef82b6fe8b9106c0b21a116d85b8efdf5d2ee89a347bb31.jpg" data-media-id="editor_15" data-image-id="2025052403054_75969125a745847a2ef82b6fe8b9106c0b21a116d85b8efdf5d2ee89a347bb31" data-rendition-name="original" width="1044" height="792" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> <figcaption>King Birendra with General Wangdu (right in dark glasses) taken in 1974 possibly in Mustang after one of their few attempts at negotiation. Photo courtesy: RAJRNDRA KUNWAR</figcaption> </figure>  While I naively rode pillion around Kathmandu in the spring sunshine, Wangdu was in the midst of what turned out to be his final round of negotiations with the Nepal government. Refusing to cease hostilities with the Chinese, Wangdu must have suspected the cost of his decision, making his cheerful smile in the photograph all the more poignant and brave. It was only much later that I appreciated the significance of the moment. Wangdu had been sent to replace the first resistance leader in Mustang, Baba Gen Yeshe, a much derided corrupt character who stole money meant for his troops and exploited fleeing refugees by seizing their treasures. Baba Gen Yeshe never forgave Wangdu,and sought revenge in May 1974 by betraying him and his commanders to the Nepal authorities. Renewed Chinese incursions from the north, active PLA collusion with the Nepali forces under the new King, and treachery from within the Chushi-Gangdrukranks combined to seal their fate.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025052403054_e0987a7c90d76431b0d7d5e6115ebfe3dbda7ab939e5941e079c18d722e884c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_16" data-image-id="2025052403054_e0987a7c90d76431b0d7d5e6115ebfe3dbda7ab939e5941e079c18d722e884c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1400" height="769" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> <figcaption>British television journalists George Patterson and Adrian Cowell embedded themselves with Khampa guerrillas and accompanied them from Tsum Valley on a cross border raid on a Chinese Army convoy in 1964. Photo: ESSAYS ON NEPAL / SAM COWAN</figcaption> </figure>  Mikel Dunham, renowned author of Buddha’s Warriors, writes: ‘It is possible that Wangdu was waiting for some cue from the Dalai Lama’s government-in-exile in Dharamsala, India. It is equally possible – during that last, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/the-human-cost-of-nepal-s-yarsa-gold-rush?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR31-Cqw8oyIwMPzf_35e4Skr0ululJvLf3_vDkzHn-AYG2h8uPw2rqqErg_aem_tGVn5coY1-jA7fze_xqhew">desolate winter </a>– that he made the decision to go out in glory rather than admit defeat. Over the last fifteen years, Wangdu had experienced Tibet’s organized resistance being squeezed and shoved around by every conceivable outside force.&nbsp; First they had been pushed out of their own country by the PLA; then they had been refused sanction while on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/borderlines/nepal-india-trans-boundary-bonds?fbclid=IwAR0PpJ5zUEbwdug3g_U3ar6FUugngRY0S8Tl2v_7wqzrsHmXWcXsKjvL4t4">Indian soil</a>; then they were abandoned by the Americans because, apparently, Nixon wanted to make friends with Wangdu’s mortal enemies, the communists; then they had been betrayed by the vampiric Baba Gen Yeshe – a Tibetan and, even worse, a fellow Khampa; and now, finally Wangdu’s army was being evicted by the Nepalis. One thing was certain: Wangdu was a warrior. To imagine Wangdu simply giving up and settling down in the pacific squalor of a <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/elderly-left-in-bhutan-refugee-camp">refugee camp </a>was unthinkable.’  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025052403054_8fc1ffef4ae751628b90ae781b66e11e51e4fdde2787207c9042efbee345ce49.jpg" data-media-id="editor_20" data-image-id="2025052403054_8fc1ffef4ae751628b90ae781b66e11e51e4fdde2787207c9042efbee345ce49" data-rendition-name="original" width="500" height="746" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> <figcaption>The much derided Baba Gen Yeshe, the first Tibetan resistance leader in Mustang, who betrayed Wangdu for personal gain. Photo courtesy: MIKEL DUNHAM</figcaption> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025052403054_b1d833cdb00d3ac4416b844d8730475cd88c238caaaf8da69889a584eea229a3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_21" data-image-id="2025052403054_b1d833cdb00d3ac4416b844d8730475cd88c238caaaf8da69889a584eea229a3" data-rendition-name="original" width="500" height="656" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> <figcaption>Aditya SJB Rana of the Royal Nepal Army whose team ambushed Wangdu and his cohorts at the top of Tinker Pass in Darchula, West Nepal. Photo courtesy: GAUTAM SJB RANA</figcaption> </figure>  By August 1974 the game was up. Wangdu and six of his exhausted party were killed on their horses by <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=7270">the Royal Nepal Army</a> on the brink of escape. The officer in charge, Aditya SJB Rana, cleverly predicted their route into India after they failed to silence a police radio in Yari. A carefully laid ambush trapped them near the summit of the Tinker Pass in Darchula,at 5,000 meters the highest military operation of its time. Wangdu’s body was helicoptered to Kathmandu, and a big show made of the royal Nepal victory.&nbsp; The Tibetan armed insurgency against China had reached its end.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250524030520_3ff9c6fc85a65bc9a2c3afe9736d9f5f9413de752e790a5d9dca0981ea94f9b4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_23" data-image-id="20250524030520_3ff9c6fc85a65bc9a2c3afe9736d9f5f9413de752e790a5d9dca0981ea94f9b4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="The last days of the Khampa NT"> </figure>

The Last Days of the Khampa

Starting 17 September Turkish Airlines will fly daily to Seville, one of Spain’s major tourist draws. This is Turkish’s sixth destination in Spain after Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Malaga, and Bilbao. Seville is in the Andalusia region on Spain’s south coast with a rich Moor history. There are approximately 30,000 Nepalis living in Spain.&nbsp;

Turkish to Seville

The newly-formed Himalayan Art Council is set to launch Nepal’s National Art Protection Platform that seeks to preserve <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/the-history-of-heritage">Nepal’s unique cultural heritage </a>using<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/artificial-censorship"> AI-powered tools</a>. The Council seeks to safeguard <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/nepali-art-going-places">Nepali art works</a> from neglect, theft and counterfeiting as well as preserve existing artwork and celebrate living masters by giving them a cultural space to continue the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/sacred-survival">sacred art traditions</a>. "We are introducing a new digital platform designed to preserve, verify and elevate <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/nepals-new-generation-of-alternative-artists">Nepal’s art for generations to come,</a>” says a statement from the Council, adding that the digital platform will use AI told for authentication and blockchain to keep track of works of art. Artists can now be protected by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/ayo-ai?fbclid=IwAR1uwmTVq4gUB70ljfRezjzukD9ArWXPuMnUikopeQ8PoiZMjicToPSwhKE&amp;=1">AI tools</a> that detect forgeries, identify their work even when unsigned, and ensure they receive proper recognition and credit. The archives will be searchable with translated inscription and interactive guides. Says curator Meena Lama: “AI and blockchains are tools that give us the power to detect fakes and identify unsigned paintings and track every piece. With these tools we can restore trust, secure authorship and give artists the dignity they deserve.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250514170544_2ab58f6313c0458f75114a692b0016bd9efb3b59d5f8f07f0da72e1e37b82f53.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20250514170544_2ab58f6313c0458f75114a692b0016bd9efb3b59d5f8f07f0da72e1e37b82f53" data-rendition-name="original" width="1300" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Artwork at the Traditional Art Exhibition at Patan Museum."> <figcaption>Artwork at the Traditional Art Exhibition at Patan Museum.</figcaption> </figure>  The Council is also holding an exhibition of Nepali cultural masterpieces with 50 historical <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Buzz-the-art,671">thangka and paubha </a>by past masters and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/between-the-sacred-and-everyday">contemporary works by current artists</a>. This curated collection is a living tribute to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/when-yaks-go-so-does-culture">Himalayan culture</a> with economic depictions of deities, mandala and sacred narratives. The exhibition at <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/a-portal-into-patan-s-past-and-present">Patan Museum</a> also provides an opportunity to meet painters and custodians of art and culture. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/golden-deities">Golden deities</a>, Sewa Bhattarai ‘The exhibition is only the first step in a long journey to ensure that Nepali art is no just seen but fully understood, <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Narratives-of-Faith-and-Memory-Remembering-the-Lost-Sculptures-of-Kathmandu-exhibition,987">protected and remembered</a>,’ the Council says. Artist Kailash K Shrestha of Artudio has spent decades promoting thankha and paubha traditions because of their beauty and devotional meaning. But he also says artists are underpaid, exploited and ignored. He adds, “AI and blockchain are not just buzzwords, they are powerful tools that can protect Nepal’s artists from fraud, verify authenticity and build a permanent record of provenance.” Traditional Art Exhibition Till 17 May Patan Museum

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