https://youtu.be/rWChxjpei0AAn increasing number of Nepali workers in the Persian Gulf and Malaysia are dying of heat stress, and experts warn that the fatality rate could go up as the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/act-globally-think-locally/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">global average temperature</a> rises in coming decades.<a href="https://www.karger.com/Article/Pdf/500853" target="_blank" rel="noopener">A recent study</a> published in the journal <a href="https://www.karger.com/Article/Abstract/500853" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Cardiology</a> presents a strong correlation between average monthly afternoon heat levels and mortality among Nepali workers in Qatar. Of the total fatalities due to cardiovascular disease (CVD) among Nepalis, 58% occurred during the summer months and 22% in winter, mostly caused by heat stress. This is much higher than the global average of 15% of total deaths in the 25-35 age group being due to CVD.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=30850&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">His last journey home to Nepal</a>, Shankar Dahal‘There was a strong correlation between average monthly afternoon heat levels and cardiovascular disease mortality. It is likely that a large proportion of these CVD deaths during hot months were due to serious heat stroke,’ the report states.Nepali climate expert Ngamindra Dahal agrees: “<a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/nepalis-killed-in-the-line-of-duty" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Deaths of Nepali migrant workers</a> in the Gulf due to excessive heat is not new, but the climate crisis has made working conditions outdoors hotter and more humid.”Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=30810&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">LABOUR PAINS</a>, Editorial<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a52419c7e80680e0522e4jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="778"/><figcaption>HEAT AND STRESS: Bishnu KC’s brother-in-law Keshar Khatri in his home village of Okharkot in Piuthan district preparing the cremation by the Jhimruk recently. KC died of heat stroke while working in Qatar. Pic: SHANKAR DAHAL</figcaption></figure>A <a href="https://www.nature.com/articles/nclimate2833" target="_blank" rel="noopener">study of high-resolution climate models</a> published in the journal Nature Climate Change projected that much of the Gulf region will be uninhabitable before the end of the century. The Persian Gulf is the fastest warming sea on the planet due to its shallowness, a process that is increasing humidity, making the mugginess worse.Ironically, the part of the world that is exporting most fossil-fuel energy will now feel the brunt of the greenhouse warming caused by carbon emissions.Climate simulations show that by 2090 average ‘wet bulb temperature’ – a combination of temperature and humidity – in cities like Dubai and Doha will exceed the threshold of human adaptability of 35°C, the temperature beyond which the human body is unable to survive more six hours at 70% humidity.A recent <a href="https://insideclimatenews.org/news/23072019/military-heat-death-illness-climate-change-risk-security-global-warming-benning-bragg-chaffee" target="_blank" rel="noopener">investigative report</a> by Inside Climate News and NBC News showed that at least 17 US soldiers have died of heat exposure during exercises at US military bases since 2008.Many Nepali migrant workers in the Gulf are exposed to similar conditions since they work in construction, which requires them to be outdoors all day. Many of them are not properly briefed about the dangers of dehydration, and at the end of the work day return to chilly air-conditioned rooms.Read also: <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/disproportionate-number-of-deaths-of-Nepali-workers-in-Malaysia,2812" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Dying to work in Malaysia,</a> Sonia AwaleBishnu KC from Okharkot village in Piuthan went to work in the Gulf 10 months ago. He often told his sister back home how difficult it was to work on the high scaffolding in the heat. KC came home in a coffin recently, just another of the 7,000 Nepalis who have died working overseas in the past 10 years. Others return with kidney problems, and need dialysis or transplants.Says Dahal: “This problem is going to get worse. Pre-departure orientation for workers should emphasise how to cope with heat stress, and the importance of keeping hydrated.”<h2>Dignity in life and death</h2><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a52459c7e80680e0522e5jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="990"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Appalled by the sloppy <a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/home-they-bring-the-workers-dead" target="_blank" rel="noopener">treatment of dead overseas workers</a>, Nepali activists petitioned the Supreme Court two years ago to demand autopsies to determine cause of death, and to provide a more dignified return home at Kathmandu airport.The NGOs, <a href="https://pourakhi.org.np/home/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Pourakhi Nepal</a> and Law and Policy Forum for Social Justice, filed the public interest litigation writ demanding the right of migrant workers to a post-mortem and more respectful handover of bodies in a separate section at the airport. They won the case, but implementing agencies have been slow to act.“We are heavily <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/remit-for-remittances/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">dependent on remittance</a> from <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/paying-an-arm-and-a-leg/">migrant workers</a> but where is our respect for the individuals who make it happen?” asks Manju Gurung of Pourakhi Nepal. “We do not care for their working conditions, we mistreat them and we do not even respect them after they have died. The cause of death goes uninvestigated and their bodies are unmanaged.”Activists claim that doctors in the destination countries are aware of the actual causes of the majority of these fatalities, but are often bribed by employers to pass them off as ‘natural deaths’.In addition, many workplaces do not meet even the most basic standards of safety and minimum working conditions, they say, which often leads to occupational hazards that can result in death. If the real cause of death is revealed, employers are liable to pay hefty compensation and hence to try and cover up the true causes. Most deaths are described as ‘heart failure’, ‘natural’, or ‘cardio-vascular disease’.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a52489c7e80680e0522e6jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1250" height="417"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Rising average temperatures in the Gulf region due to climate change have also increased the incidence of heat stress among those who have to work outdoors. Experts say many of the deaths of Nepali workers are due to heart failure cause by heat and overwork.Apart from the daily average 2-3 migrant workers who arrive at Kathmandu airport in coffins, many others remain in morgues in the Gulf and Malaysia. Some are workers who ran away from their first employers after being dissatisfied with their pay and working conditions. Under the kafala system, they lacked passports and became undocumented workers. Without legal documents to verify their identity, the bodies have not made it back home. No one has an exact figure of such cases.Lately, the Foreign Employment Board has updated its mandatory pre-departure orientation for migrant workers, making them more country-specific and relevant. They now include information on legal issues, working conditions and pay, cultural sensitivities and heat stress and the need to keep hydrated.Gurung blames a lack of political will for the continued apathy, because it is ordinary citizens who are affected.  She adds: “It is the poorest who suffer, so it is not a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/bargaining-power/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">priority for the government</a> and our embassies in destination countries. Workers should be cared for, even after death.”

Sonia Awale

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The heat is killing us

https://youtu.be/rWChxjpei0AKeshar Khatri was pacing up and down the arrival area of Kathmandu airport one recent morning, frequently glancing up at the Arrivals monitor. It had been more than two hours since the Doha flight landed, yet there was no sign of his brother-in-law, Bishnu KC.Finally, he saw them – three grim-faced men pushing two baggage trolleys with a red box. Ten months after leaving his home village of Okharkot of Piuthan, Bishnu KC was coming home in a coffin. A few minutes later, another coffin arrived containing the body of a Nepali who had died in Saudi Arabia.Other happy returning workers rolled heavy, cellophane-wrapped suitcases as they emerged from the arrival concourse where relatives who had been waiting waved at them from behind the glass partition. There were happy reunions in the parking lot. They barely noticed the two coffins being strapped to nearby pickups.Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=30810&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">LABOUR PAINS</a>, Editorial<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=30809&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The heat is killing us</a>, Sonia Awale<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a528c9c7e80680e052300jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="780"/><figcaption>SUDDEN DEATH: The coffin of Bishnu KC is wheeled out of Kathmandu Airport by his room mate Ram Bilas Yadav. All Photos: SHANKAR DAHAL</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a528f9c7e80680e052301jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="787"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a52929c7e80680e052302jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="1066"><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a52959c7e80680e052303jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="788"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a52989c7e80680e052304jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="782"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Bishnu KC was now a statistic: just one of 670 Nepali workers overseas who died in the last 12 months, and 6,921 in the past decade, among them <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/death-of-nepali-migrant-workers-in-qatar,1592" target="_blank" rel="noopener">1,367 in Qatar alone</a>. At the nearby Departure area, other Nepalis were lining up at the special gate for overseas workers to check in for flights. At least 900 are still leaving every day, yet this number is down due to a freeze on Malaysia work permits.Ram Bilas Yadav, KC’s roommate in Qatar, accompanied the coffin and handed Khatri a bag with his brother-in-law’s belongings, including his remaining salary of 4,052 Qatari Riyal ($1,113). The certificate in Bishnu KC’s name from the public health department of Qatar stated the cause of death: ‘Died in sleep of natural cause. Heart failure.’ There was <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/headline/Sudden-death,2797" target="_blank" rel="noopener">no post-mortem report</a>.The pickup then left on the 450km journey to Okharkot. Driver Rabin Shrestha, from Ramechhap, works as a hearse driver for the Foreign Employment Promotion Board. He exits the Valley at Thankot, driving at top speed. He says he has to return to Kathmandu to collect another coffin the next day. (See box.)<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a529b9c7e80680e052305jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="654"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a529e9c7e80680e052306jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="905">Occupants of the pickup reach Bhalubang off the East-West Highway past midnight, and decide to catch some sleep in their seats. They have timed their arrival in Okharkot in the morning so KC’s family can immediately perform funeral rites. Although tired after the long ride, no one can sleep. Khatri thinks of Bishnu, who was 27 and had only his mother at home. His brother lives elsewhere, and his sisters are married, one of them to Khatri.“He was promised work in Global Link Food Service in Doha, but ended up working on a high rise construction site in 50-degree heat,” Khatri recalled. “He used to write home to his sister that he was finding the work very difficult.”There was a big crowd of relatives and neighbours when the pickup reached the village the next morning, accompanied by loud wailing as the coffin was taken out. Bishnu’s mother whispered ‘mero babu’ when she saw her son’s lifeless face, and fainted. Relatives draped the body in yellow, sprinkled vermilion and carried it to the banks of the Jhimruk for the cremation.This is the second body to be returned home to Okharkot from overseas, while Piuthan district recorded five fatalities of migrant workers last year. There is no record of the number of Nepalis working in India, although the estimates vary between 2.5 and 3.5 million. If a person from Piuthan dies in India there is no official record, and the bodies are usually not brought home.Although research on <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/disproportionate-number-of-deaths-of-Nepali-workers-in-Malaysia,2812" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Sudden Death Syndrome</a> is sparse and autopsies are rarely performed on dead workers, the causes are thought to <a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/home-they-bring-the-workers-dead" target="_blank" rel="noopener">be hard work in hot and humid conditions</a>, excessively air-conditioned living quarters at night, worry about low pay, stress because of cheating by middlemen, and homesickness. Rising temperatures due to the climate emergency are also making working conditions harsher in the Gulf (see adjoining article).Although the Nepal government offers the family of every worker who dies abroad Rs700,000, the ones whose deaths are categorised as ‘natural’ are not eligible. In the past decade, the government has paid out Rs1.67 billion to the families of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/nepali-migrants-too-young-to-die,2811" target="_blank" rel="noopener">dead workers</a>.Here on the banks of the Jhimruk, the cremation is done. Khatri finally looks through the content of his brother-in-law’s handbag. There is his passport, some letters and the death certificate that says his death was ‘natural’. “It is going to be most difficult for Bishnu’s mother,” he says. “He was the only one taking care of her.”<h2>Delivering death</h2><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a52a19c7e80680e052307jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="782">Rabin Shrestha’s job as a <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/home-they-bring-the-workers-dead" target="_blank" rel="noopener">hearse driver</a> is year-round. The reason he drove so fast from Kathmandu to Piuthan with the coffin of Bishnu KC in the back of his pickup was because he had to return to Kathmandu airport to collect another body of a dead worker the next day. Shrestha says he alone delivers 12 coffins every month all over Nepal.The task has taken Shrestha to 69 of Nepal’s 77 districts. “I have really seen the whole of Nepal on this job,” he said on the long drive to Piuthan recently. “Rain, landslides, bandhs; I have to get the bodies of the workers home one last time.”Shrestha and his colleagues mostly do the Kathmandu-Central Tarai route. That is because the highest number of fatalities of Nepali workers overseas is among those who come from the six districts of the central and eastern Tarai. Last year alone, Morang registered 35 deaths, Sarlahi 35, Dhanusha 33, Siraha 29, Mahottari 27 and Dang had 21.At the Foreign Employment Board in Kathmandu, an overworked civil servant says he is waiting for a transfer from his depressing job. He said: “My job is to keep track of which coffins are arriving on which flights, and make sure there is a hearse to receive them and take them to their home districts. It is like working in a funeral home.”

His last journey home to Nepal

<figure><img width="1400" height="1050" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a524a9c7e80680e0522e7jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Pic: SHANKAR DAHAL</figcaption></figure>Nepal’s politicians are prone to hyperbole, and every decade or so they have a habit of declaring that no Nepali will have to go abroad to work. A more realistic goal would be to make migration as safe as possible, eliminate exploitation and abuse by fellow Nepalis and unscrupulous employers in destination countries, and upgrade migrants’ skills so they earn more. Migrant workers need to be treated with respect at the departure and arrival desks at the airport, as befitting their vital role in propping up this country’s economy.Read also: <a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=30850&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">His last journey home to Nepal</a>, Shankar DahalOnly after we do that, and start generating infrastructure and manufacturing-driven employment through investment-friendly policies back home, can we start boasting that Nepalis don’t have to leave the country anymore to find work. Alas, we don’t see signs of that happening any time soon.   We are stuck with labour migration for the foreseeable future, and we have to make the best of it. There are signs that under Labour Minister Gokarna Bista, economic diplomacy has moved into high gear. Nepal has been playing a leading role on migration matters in South Asia, starting with the declaration at the 2015 SAARC Summit in Kathmandu of Article 21, which enjoins regional countries to collaborate for the welfare of migrant labour in destination countries.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=30809&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The heat is killing us</a>, Sonia AwaleThe SAARC Plan of Action on Labour Migration was adopted in May 2016, and a ministerial declaration of the ‘Colombo Process’ was made in November of that year. South Asian countries also started working together under the umbrella of the ‘Abu Dhabi Dialogue among the Asian Labour Sending and Receiving Countries’. Nepali diplomats and activists have also been active in the Global Compact on Migration, adopted last year, which seeks to ensure ‘safe, orderly and regular migration’.Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/home-they-bring-the-workers-dead" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Home they bring the workers dead</a>, Upasana KhadkaExperts at a recent roundtable organised in Kathmandu by SARTUC (South Asian Regional Trade Union Council) and the Hri Institute, and attended by advocacy and labour policy gurus, reaffirmed the natural weakness of sending countries because of competition and lack of political will to coordinate. Destination countries therefore shop for the cheapest labour, for example playing off Bangladeshis against Nepalis.To a greater or lesser degree, all South Asian labour exporting countries face the same problems of exploitation by middlemen, cheating by employers – as in the recent case of 44 Nepali women tricked into sewing jobs in China, and others rescued from a night club in Mombasa.  Although Nepali workers seem to be disproportionately affected by Sudden Death Syndrome because of heat stress, all South Asian workers have higher fatality rates for young men in that age group.Despite the hardships, Nepalis have a good reputation for hard work. Perhaps because of this, they are assigned to dangerous work on high-rise scaffoldings. Increasingly, Nepalis are also moving into the service sector and managerial positions, taking over from Filipinos.Yet, the challenges for countries heavily dependent on migrant labour, like Nepal, are growing. They include trafficking of women, and men, as in recent cases in Kenya and Libya. Tensions are brewing between Qatar and the UAE/Saudis, as well as the Saudi-Iranian conflict, an ‘Emeritisation’ happening in the UAE, and East and West African labour are displacing traditional Nepali jobs in construction and security in the Gulf. (The Kenyans come across as smarter, better-dressed and with English competence.) All these events serve to remind us that dependence on remittances is fragile, and we must have a Plan B.The idea of developing skills for Nepalis before they go overseas has been limited to rhetoric, despite tens of millions of dollars spent by donors and the government.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-malaysia-labour-pact/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Nepal-Malaysia Labour pact</a>, Ramu SapkotaMedia coverage of issues related to overseas migrant labour tends to obscure the millions of Nepalis, the poorest among the migrants, who go to India. Exact figures are lacking, with Indian diplomats pointing at a high figure of 7 million. But during the Eminent Persons’ Group negotiations a more realistic 3 million figure was presented. The Pew Research Institute has placed Nepal as the seventh largest country sending remittances to India, thanks to migrant workers from Bihar, West Bengal and Odisha.In this issue, we examine Sudden Death Syndrome, and how the climate crisis will make heat stress a matter of life or death for Nepali workers in the Gulf (page 14-15). Sudden death is classified as ‘natural’ and not ‘workplace related’, preventing workers’ families from collecting insurance. The Nepal government must insist on autopsies of dead workers to pinpoint cause of death, or perform them on bodies when they arrive in Kathmandu. The coffins are also not handled with respect when they arrive via the regular baggage channel at Kathmandu Airport.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/kleptocrats-of-kathmandu-and-kualalampur/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Kleptocrats of Kathmandu and Kuala Lumpur</a>, Ramu Sapkota  and Alyaa AlhadjriThe group Paurakhi has won a writ petition at the Supreme Court ordering the government to create special facilities at the airport for arriving coffins. But there has been no move to implement this.The Foreign employment Board has now upgraded its curriculum on pre-departure training to make it more relevant and country-specific. That is a welcome step to making migration safer. Let us also make it more worthwhile. 10 Year Ago This WeekIn Nepali Times 10 years ago (issue #462 of 31 July - August 6) we are reminded that there is nothing new about the annual emergency Nepal faces during the monsoon. The only difference is that it is getting worse. Excerpt from the page 1 report:‘When it rains it pours. As if the political crisis wasn’t bad enough, Nepal is going through a multi-layered economic and development emergency.But roaming the corridors of power in Singha Darbar, you wouldn’t know it. There is a cholera epidemic in western Nepal, the winter drought that destroyed the wheat crops was followed by a delayed monsoon that decimated maize and rice.This is bound to make inflation of essential food commodities even worse. It is already running between 20 and 50%, defying all economic theories, and despite the open border with India where inflation is single digit.’<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108131156/636a524e9c7e80680e0522e8jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="1225">

LABOUR PAINS

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

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

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.

Things eventually work out

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