<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfde49c7e80680e0a0c0djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"/><figcaption>A dancer impersonating Goddess Nil Barahi at the festival. All photo: SAURAV THAPA SHRESTHA</figcaption></figure>More than 500 years after they were first performed, Kathmandu Valley’s tantric dance festivals are seeing something of a revival.The Lichhavi and Malla era <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/kathmandus-festival-of-the-mysterious-dancing-goddess/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nil Barahi Dyo Pyakhan</a> (निलबाराही द्यो प्याखँ), a mystical ancient dance, is a part of Kathmandu Valley’s rich intangible heritage that is staging a comeback.Residents of Bodey, a quaint Newa settlement north of Thimi, have been performing the tantric dance consisting of different deities including Bhairav, Barahi, Kumari, Simha, Dwarpal and Ganesh.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfde89c7e80680e0a0c0ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>All the deities line up with the Bhairab at centre during a special ritual called Kha Tyeligu that takes place every 12 years.</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdeb9c7e80680e0a0c0fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="667" height="1000"><figcaption>An offering of Kisli (prepared with rice, coins and betel nuts) to the deity</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfded9c7e80680e0a0c10jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="667" height="1000"><figcaption>Devotees wait for their turn to provide offerings to the deities.</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdf09c7e80680e0a0c11jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1000" height="1500"><figcaption>A musician playing mwali</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdf29c7e80680e0a0c12jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1000" height="1500"><figcaption>Dwarpal at Nilbarahi Naach</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdf59c7e80680e0a0c13jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>Simha jump (Simha ti nwoigu) is one of the most spectacular shows during the festival. Here it is being performed at Nil Barahi Temple premises in Bodey.</figcaption></figure>Legend has it that a Bodey farmer with the surname Dhon (धों) was abducted by the Nil Barahi herself in her deer form and carried into the nearby dense forest of Tigini. The deity taught him a tantric dance, which the locals would go on to perform every year ever since.Some believe that the ritual dates back to an even earlier Lichhavi era, 1,000 years ago. But the first record of the dances being performed are from 1514 (Nepal Sambat 633) when King Subarna Malla commissioned the performance of the Navadurga Naach (नवदुर्गा नाच) in the drought-hit <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/bhaktapur-shows-the-way-by-rebuilding-itself/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Bhaktapur</a>.He also organised Layaku Bhaila (लायकु भैलः) in Thimi and Nil Barahi Naach in Bode. Later in 1718, King Bhupatindra Malla offered ‘Chhati Kathi’, the Royal Sceptre (राजदण्ड) and land for the ritual. The sceptre is intact, and still has the date inscribed on it.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdf99c7e80680e0a0c14jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>Ganesh deities during one of the performances.</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdfc9c7e80680e0a0c15jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>Ganesh deities take a short rest in between the performances.</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdff9c7e80680e0a0c16jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>A participant holding the Sukunda of Bhairab in Nilbarahi Naach Festival.</figcaption></figure>Others state that the dance is the celebration of a peaceful victory in an ancient battle. According to local folklore, three dances took place at the time. Mahakali Naach at Nagadesh portrayed preparation for the war, Navadurga Naach represented the war itself, and Nil Barahi was the celebration.The four days preceding <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/saparu-the-festival-of-death-and-rebirt,2543" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Gaijatra</a>, mark the beginning of the festival which this year is held 24-27 August. On these days, the Bodey locals representing the deities are taught the dance in the process called Pyakha Syenegu (प्याखं स्यनेगु), which translates into ‘teaching the dance’. As patrons of the dance, the attendance of Bhairav, Barahi and Ganesh is mandatory.The individuals representing deities draw on heavenly power once they put on their masks. With tantric ability, they dance for four nights and three days despite all hardships. The entire time they dance, the deities and their families cannot consume anything, cannot talk, and only use hand gestures.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe039c7e80680e0a0c17jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1000" height="1500"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe069c7e80680e0a0c18jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1000" height="1500"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe089c7e80680e0a0c19jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe0c9c7e80680e0a0c1ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe109c7e80680e0a0c1bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>Various accessories adorned by the deities.</figcaption></figure>Each deity is accompanied by Jwokalu (ज्वकालु, a helper) to help them with their needs. If the performers need to rest, they can do so only for a few minutes. If a dancer dies before the ritual or during it, one of the family members must step in.The <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/patans-dance-of-the-deities/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">animated dance procession</a> has 19 masked dancers but it is acted out by an ensemble of some 100 residents of Bodey. This includes deities, gurus, dancers, musicians and helpers.A variety of musical instruments accompanies the dance. An individual carries a ‘Sukunda’, which has to be aflame throughout the festival. In the past when the lamp had turned off, deities had gotten sick.As soon as every member arrives at Dyo Chhen, the parade begins. But before that, all the masks are brought to Naskuti (नासःकुथि), inside the Dyo Chenn where Jwokalu carries them. An accompanying musical tune is played during the mask-wearing procession.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe149c7e80680e0a0c1cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>The crowd gathered to watch the masked dance.</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe199c7e80680e0a0c1djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>The gathering of all the deities.</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe1c9c7e80680e0a0c1ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>The pwonga musical team at the festival.</figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe209c7e80680e0a0c1fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe239c7e80680e0a0c20jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption></figcaption></figure>The procession has a sequenced lined up: flag (ध्वाय्), sword and shield (सँय्), Chilakh (flames), sceptre (rajdanda), Bhairab, Barahi, Kumari, Simha, Dwarpal, Ganesh and musical team at the back.From the Dyo Chhen, the parade takes you to Lachhi (लाछी), Lyaku (लाय्कु), Bishnughat (विष्णुघाट), Bhangu (भाँगु), Khansi (खाँसी) and back to Akha through Lachhi. The deities’ march through the gallis is accompanied by traditional musical instruments like dhaa baja (two-headed drums), ta and bhusyah (cymbals), ponga and mwali (flutes).A variety of rhythmic music is played based on four different dance styles: Nhyakhin Taal (न्ह्याखीं), Dhaa: Taal (द्यःताल), Lisa: Nyosa: (लिसाः न्ह्यसाः ताल) and Simha ti nwoigu Taal (सिंद्य तिं न्वइगु ताल). Deities receive offerings from the locals and relatives as part of the ritual.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfe269c7e80680e0a0c21jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption>Those who can't make it to the procession can still worship the deities with offering at Dyo Chhen at nights during the festival.</figcaption></figure>The enthusiasm and passion of the inhabitants in Bodey is the key to preserving this <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=12277#.YSd36i2B2CR" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">ancient tradition</a>, which is why the ritual has continued to this day for the past five centuries. For viewers, it is a unique taste of our culture, for the performers, it is a life-long commitment.The 19 dancers who represent Bhairav, Nil Barahi, Kumari, Singha, Dwarpal and Ganesh take the responsibility for life until a new group is appointed in what is called Dyo Gan Hilegu (द्यःगं हिलिगु; where the deities are changed). The current group has been performing the ritual since 1958 and most of them are in their 70s and 80s.

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Kathmandu Valley’s Nil Barahi Dyo Pyakhan

Laxman Ranjit walks on past the Kasthamandap, one of the Valley’s oldest buildings, from which the city gets its name. There are days when he stops by it briefly. The structure that dates back to the 7th century is in scaffolding as it is being rebuilt after being destroyed on 25 April 2015 earthquake. It was here that Ranjit, his wife Nilu and five-year-old son, Aryan, found themselves during a blood donation drive when the earthquake struck. When the earth started trembling, and the wooden beams and columns of the structure started to shake, Ranjit immediately clasped Aryan to his chest and leapt out of the balcony. He saved his son’s life, but could not save his wife Nilu, whose body was pulled out of the rubble with nine other <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/from-nepali-press/The-fall-of-Kasthamandap,2234">blood donors who died</a> that day at Kasthamandap. A national level athlete, Ranjit had had the presence of mind and the agility to pick his son up and jump out as the ancient structure collapsed behind them, breaking his leg at several places during the fall. “I never thought Nilu would die,” he recalls. “As they rushed me to hospital I was in excruciating pain, but I remember thinking they must have taken her to hospital as well.” When the dust from the earthquakes had settled, Ranjit suddenly found himself a widower, a single father, left to care for his son and an ageing father. He would spend several months recuperating at the National Trauma Centre, undergoing surgery and counselling. Every time Ranjit leaves his home in Chikamuga in the past six years, he has had to walk past Kasthamandap, and this has become a constant reminder to him of that tragic day. <div class="embed-block"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110121148/636ce5cf9c7e80680e09672fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="480"> Photo: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</div> Laxman is a torch bearer of the Ranjit clan, which has to perform the Majipa Lakhe ritual mask dance during the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/kathmandu-celebrates-yenya/">Indra Jatra festival</a> every year. Aside from that, he also leads a parallel mortal existence as a policeman and a national level weight lifting champion in the feather weight category. In <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/getting-behind-the-divine-mask/">his guise of the Majipa Lakhe</a> he used to put on a memorable performance every year, making him the undisputed, celebrated member of the clan of masked dancers. But 25 April 2015 changed his life. <div class="embed-block"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110121148/636ce5d39c7e80680e096730jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="559" height="278"></div> The days in hospital were an awakening. He recalls how impatient he was to get out into the world again, and how he would walk around the wards, raising the spirits of other injured survivors like himself. <div class="embed-block"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110121148/636ce5d49c7e80680e096731jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="3000" height="1933"> </div> “There was this bahini who had injured her back. I said to her, you have a life ahead of you, look at me, I lost my wife, I have a child and I might no longer be able to do my job. It is the spirit that keeps us alive, life is not over,” he recalls. Ranjit was not going to let a broken leg strap him, and he knew he would have to don his mask and go back gyrating into the Indra Jatra throng. He missed being behind the ferocious mask, the flowing brocade frock, with the bells clanking around his waist, and dashing through the streets without restraint. He also missed his life as an athlete. Even while recovering from his injury, the next Indra Jatra saw him supporting his brothers who were upholding the responsibility of performing the mask dance. And that is when he met Amrita Maharjan, who he would eventually marry. <div class="embed-block"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110121148/636ce5d79c7e80680e096732jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1280" height="853"> Phoot curtesy of Laxman Ranjit.</div> “I had heard about what he had been through,” Maharjan tells us. “We met through a cousin. I finally saw who the lakhe really was, and he was a child.” As Amrita spent more time with the father and son, she understood that she would soon have a role to play in their lives. They had a small wedding on the side of Aryan’s Bratabandha ceremony last year. “She has filled a void in our lives,” says Ranjit. “Nilu left me because I spent too much time at work. I will try to spend more time with my family now.” Ranjit is now back to work as the red-haired masked demon at Indra Jatra. He says, “Once I wore my gear, I was the lakhe. My body found the rhythm again.” Because of his injuries, the 41-year-old finds that he can no longer compete as a weight lifter and is considering other professional options. “I could remain a policeman until I retire and wait for a pension, but that will not be enough to give my son a good education,” says Ranjit, who has turned down offers to cameo as Lakhey at national events. Ranjit is troubled by the projection of lakhe as characters in YouTube videos, which have been criticised as cultural misappropriation. “There’s nothing wrong with culture. One needs to understand the history of the land and its connection to the people first,” he says. <div class="embed-block"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110121148/636ce5db9c7e80680e096733jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="798"> Photo: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</div> Like all boys in the Ranjit clan, someday Aryan will inherit the mask and fiery attire, which the family regards as a source of strength, but until then the father hopes to build his son’s emotional resilience. “The spirit of the lakhe is indomitable, it does not cower down to anything. The demon is actually a representation of who we are as humans,” Ranjit explains. “We fall, but we have to rise and we have to keep going. It is all about will power.”

Pratibha Tuladhar

The spirit that is fire

When Winston Churchill addressed the Canadian Parliament in December 1941, he recalled that generals of Nazi-occupied France had said that England would “have her neck wrung like a chicken”. Churchill went on to quip: “Some chicken.” As the laughter and applause subsided, he added: “Some neck.” (Even longer laughter and applause) We do not know who first started calling the narrow corridor that joins India to its northeastern states a 'Chicken’s Neck', but there also was the hint of a Churcillian connotation. Akhilesh Upadhayay in his new book In the Margins of the Empires: A History of the Chicken’s Neck, uses this strip as an entry point to explore a region adjoining Nepal, Bhutan, China, Sikkim, Darjeeling, India’s northeast and the tectonics that shaped its geo-strategic terrain.&nbsp; Upadhyay’s Chicken Neck is an organic whole, connected through centuries by transboundary traders, travellers, monks, spies, missionaries, mountaineers, and more. And as infrastructure and connectivity improves, smaller countries like Nepal and Bhutan (and earlier Sikkim) are caught up in the region’s rivalries. The tri-junction of the Chicken’s Neck is a potential flashpoint that has obsessed India’s military strategists ever since Partition in 1947 and the formation of East Pakistan, and the Chinese annexation of Tibet. India found itself squeezed between Chumbi Valley in China to the north and Pakistan to the south. So, when Sikkim started acting too independent for its own good 50 years ago, India engineered its annexation and turned it into its 22nd state. The 1962 Sino-Indian war elevated its strategic importance even more. Alarm bells ring in New Delhi each time there is trouble around the Chicken’s Neck: the Naxalite uprising had to be swiftly crushed, the Indian military moved in to liberate Bangladesh, Gorkhaland and ULFA activities were dangerously nearby, Bhutan had to be appeased. Every once in a while things would flare up between India and China, as in the 2017 Doklam standoff.&nbsp; And last year’s regime change in Bangladesh has rattled New Delhi enough to deploy its Rafael fighters and BrahMos cruise missiles in the Chicken’s Neck. It is now the most densely militarised strip of real estate in this part of the world. &nbsp; As a journalist and former editor of Kathmandu Post, Upadhyay also peers at the Chicken’s Neck through Nepal’s perspective. After all, Jhapa (where the author is originally from) sits right there astride India’s strategic lifeline.&nbsp; Geopolitics is at the front and centre of the book that takes readers back to the time Nepal was a closed Himalayan kingdom.&nbsp; Nepal may be a yam between two boulders, but it may just as well be a thicker Chicken’s Neck as far as New Delhi and Beijing are concerned. Nepal’s rulers have always had to walk the tightrope between China and India. Khampa guerrillas, covertly helped by American and Indian intelligence, raided Chinese military convoys from bases in Nepal, and King Mahendra had to do some intricate diplomatic footwork. India is often described as Nepal’s closest friend, but our relations with China go back as long in terms of the Lhasa trade, Bhrikuti and Arniko, religious exchanges and people-to-people relations. While Nepali researchers are wary of touching on Chinese, Indian or American sensitivities, Upadhyay’s journalistic background means he has no qualms about tackling the subject head-on, and objectively. He spent more than a year researching the book, sniffing around Siliguri, Bagdogra, Naxalbari, Darjeeling and the villages on the Jhapa side. Then he travelled to Olangchung Gola to listen to ordinary people of the Himalayan rimlands. Despite the perception about rigid frontiers between nation states, the book hints at how absurd the notion is. The Chicken’s Neck is also a wild elephant migration corridor, disturbed by the India-Bangladesh border fence, new expressway embankments, airport runways, and expanding cities. Similarly, the people on the Nepal-tibet border used to cross over to graze yaks — this expanded the gene pools of not just the yaks but also the nomadic humans who moved with the herds.&nbsp; Despite the hard borders, trade flourishes. Upadhyay marvels that a shop in Phungling in Taplejung has embroidered saris from Siliguri and fluffy jackets from China. he finds that residents in the northeastern and southeastern tips of Nepal have more in common with kin across the border in Tibet or India than with someone from Kathmandu. Nepal was once one of the biggest trade hubs in ancient times, and our products were treated as equals in Indian border cities. People too, could move freely, especially if they were and are from bordering Tarai cities.&nbsp; Nepal’s rich history and culture was shaped by the proximity to neighbours, and despite borders it is still cemented by marriages and trade — especially in the Nepali-speaking lands to the east. Its geographical positioning makes Nepal not landlocked but land-linked, adjacent to the largest emerging economies of the world. Nepal needs to deploy its soft power with effective diplomacy to take advantage of these two empires, and not be choked by their rivalry. The book was going to press when the GenZ protests ignited in September, but Upadhyay nevertheless managed to insert the current political transition into the pages with deft editing. &nbsp;The final section of the book examines at least three possible scenarios that may unfold as South Asia continues to be shaped by great power rivalries and imperial contests that have weakened the unilateral influence of the west.&nbsp; Akhilesh Upadhyay extrapolates from the Chicken’s Neck, zooming out for a wider perspective on the Subcontinent. &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025121912124_0ae772e7736a65f53a99599b5724ca133a64fdea0e61c7170ea81f9dd95c7af0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025121912124_0ae772e7736a65f53a99599b5724ca133a64fdea0e61c7170ea81f9dd95c7af0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="In the Margins of Empires: A History of the Chicken’s Neck NT"> </figure>

Some chicken, some neck

‘Get out of my house.’ ‘All my sickness is because of you.’ ‘You’re a millstone around my neck.’ Arundhati Roy heard these admonitions from her mother over and over throughout her life.&nbsp; This must be a singular, yet universal experience. There must be very few daughters who make it through life unscathed by their mothers. And vice-versa.&nbsp; How many of our mothers look at us and see in us the potential of all of the lives they could have lived? How many resent us for it, or want us to live those lives in their stead? And how many of us look back at our mothers and imagine what they would have achieved had they not been expected and assigned to play the role of wife, daughter-in-law, mother — had we never existed in their lives? How many mothers project their experiences onto their own daughters and continue the cycle? No daughter seems to escape it — no matter how well-behaved, docile, unruly, or rebellious. Certainly not the child who would go on to become a Booker prize-winning author. Arundhati Roy’s memoir Mother Mary Comes To Me chronicles her complex relationship with her mother Mary, or Mrs Roy, as her educator mother had her two children refer to her. In December, Arundhati Roy was in Kathmandu to sign books and briefly interact with readers at two bookshops in the city. She describes a childhood overshadowed by her mother’s volatility towards her and her brother. Mary herself was raised by an abusive father to escape whom she married the first man who proposed — Arundhati’s father who in her mother’s words turned out to be an alcoholic ‘Nothing Man’.&nbsp; Mary left her husband in Assam and eventually wound up with her two children in her town of Aymanam in Kerala, encountering other family members along the way who did not treat her, or her children with respect. The trauma and cruelty her mother endured could not be contained in her body, and spilled out onto her two children, towards whom she was physically, verbally, and emotionally abusive.&nbsp; While she treated her children with disregard, she would build a school in the nearby town of Kottayam from the ground up, educate thousands of children, take up a legal fight that led to the Supreme Court granting Syrian Christian women in India equal inheritance rights, and uplift many orphaned children and women in Kerala.&nbsp; Arundhati lived with both her mother’s brutality and brilliance. And like her daughter, readers must reconcile the indefensible parts of Mary Roy’s personality — the cruelty of calling her nine-year-old daughter a bitch, or shooting the family dog that mated with a stray — with her unyielding drive to educate thousands, fight for equal rights, and challenge the way her world viewed women.&nbsp; Mrs Roy had little kindness for her own children, but plenty for the students, children, and women whose lives she shaped, and made better. And her kindness was not rooted in empathy, but in anger at the hand she had been dealt in life. Eventually, Arundhati decided to temporarily cut all contact with Mrs Roy — not because she did not love her, she writes, but so that she could continue to love her. Her desire to get away from her abusive mother, and her fascination with the ideas inspired by the architect who built her mother’s school, would lead her to the Delhi School of Architecture at age 16. In Delhi, Arundhati became roommates with Hisila Yami before she and her Maoist ideologue husband Baburam Bhattarai went underground to lead Nepal’s decade-long armed struggle. &nbsp; But architecture was not her calling. In Delhi, the heart of India’s statecraft, Arundhati came into young adulthood against a backdrop of the country’s changing socio-politics, which began to take a turn for the hyper-nationalist, Hindu supremacist community that it has now largely become. The winds of those changes have now blown into Nepal. In the city, far from her mother, Arundhati met the man who would become her partner of many years, collaborating with him on several films and screenplays before finding the language (‘I needed to hunt [language] down like prey,’ she writes) she needed to become the writer she is now.&nbsp; She went on to write her Booker prize-winning novel The God of Small Things, but the wealth and status the book brought her did not sit comfortably. So she smashed her newly-built gilded cage, as she describes it, and became more political. Contrary to norm, she published several works of non-fiction, and would only publish her second novel, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, in 2017, 20 years after The God of Small Things. &nbsp;&nbsp; Her fierce opposition to India’s nuclear policies, to a dam that would displace millions of indigenous people and ecologically damage the Narmada Valley, her championing of Kashmiri self-determination, and her time spent with Maoist rebels in the forests of Chhattisgarh as they took up arms to defend their land and resources against corporate interests made her an enemy of the state.&nbsp; Meanwhile, being raised by a single mother had never sat well within her Syrian Christian community. ‘I wasn't Christian enough. I wasn't Hindu enough. I wasn't communist enough. I wasn't enough,’ Roy writes in her memoir. For all her love for India, the nation did not seem to reciprocate. The circumstances might be different, but it might strike a chord with readers in Nepal, many of whom marched on the streets in September hoping for a better tomorrow, but were gunned down by the very institutions meant to protect them. It might resonate with those who are not seen as citizens of this nation simply because they might not fit into an imagined idea of Nepali nationhood.&nbsp; Arundhati’s relationship with her mother, who was simultaneously proud and disdainful of her daughter’s accomplishments, continued to be tumultuous until the end of Mary Roy’s life.&nbsp; One of Mrs Roy’s last messages to her daughter before she passed was: ‘There is no one in the world whom I have loved more than you.’ Arundhati muses that her lifelong refusal to stop loving her mother must have finally breached her barriers. One wonders if that final declaration of love was solace enough, apology enough, for all the pain caused.&nbsp; But for Arundhati Roy, her love for her mother and her motherland outweighs the cruelty both have shown her. This, too, must be a singular, yet universal experience.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025122208128_32b171acb09df2184495367b74efd91fe2896b0f5ba75b276e1533276268761c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025122208128_32b171acb09df2184495367b74efd91fe2896b0f5ba75b276e1533276268761c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Mother Mary Comes to Me review"> </figure>

The sins of our mothers

This is the first instalment of our new series Nepal Made, where we profile world-class Nepali products and the people behind them. The Himalaya is the home to Ayurveda, the preventive and curative medicinal practice that relies on the tremendous diversity of plant life. This is where Hanuman is said to have come to find a specific rare herb when Ram was wounded in battle. When he could not find it, he tore off a whole mountain and hauled it down to Lanka. Since then, herbal medicines and care products have been steadily modernised in India and Nepal. Now, one Kathmandu-based company, Herveda, is going global with an all-natural skincare brand that blends traditional knowledge of medicinal plants with modern technology. Originally a Sanskrit word, Ayurveda literally means ‘the science of life’ and promotes physical and mental wellbeing through a holistic knowledge system that is 4,000 years old. Ayurvedic products have gotten more popular as global demand rises for all-natural, chemical-free cosmetic and wellness products, instead of wasteful fast fashion and beauty trends. Herveda was founded by Prativa Pandey, a scientist-entrepreneur and mother of two. She did her PhD in nanotechnology chemistry from Northwestern University in the United States and returned to Nepal in 2015 after the earthquake, staying back to explore the market and launch her brand.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251218141216_b699e74ee82333951b99b22648705dc916deb8eef3d425c77c1e2f3b1058a64d.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251218141216_b699e74ee82333951b99b22648705dc916deb8eef3d425c77c1e2f3b1058a64d" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Looking good by doing good NT"></figure>  “I wanted to do something in Nepal, but didn’t want to be a doctor or engineer,” says Pandey at the elegant Herveda showroom in Jhamsikhel. “Whatever knowledge that I had gathered, I wanted to spread it in my own country.” Nepal is rich in traditional medicinal herbs and Ayurvedic plants, but proper utilisation and mobilisation has always been lagging. Most of the benefits are reaped by large companies and not local farmers. Pandey wanted to change that. To ensure that it gives back to the community, Herveda collaborates with farmers and local traders for fair trade. “I have always been fascinated by the medicinal herbs found in Nepal, and wanted to create high value products with them. It was a way to combine valuable indigenous knowledge with my academic research background,” adds Pandey. “I did not require a huge investment, just a proper marketing strategy.”  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251218141216_350f6eb1511523ea54a8aba468f20a7dffcb5def3fade4dcced30324417f83bc.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251218141216_350f6eb1511523ea54a8aba468f20a7dffcb5def3fade4dcced30324417f83bc" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Looking good by doing good NT"></figure>  According to the Trade and Promotion Center under the Ministry of Industry, Nepal’s import of cosmetic products is increasing every year, driven by demand from a younger population. These younger customers are also more conscious about the products they use. For brands like Herveda, it is important that customers engage in wellness and skincare in an ethical and sustainable manner. Apart from being all natural, Herveda’s flagship store in Jhamsikhel has a reuse box where consumers can drop used bottles, which are then recycled. The store also displays products from 35 local businesses. Pandey believes that Nepali brands should cross-promote and complement each other: “Rather than competing, I believe we should support each other. 1+1 can be 11, and not two.” Effectiveness and functionality hold great importance for Herveda. which employs 25 scientists to develop and lab test its products at its research institute. Currently, there are products ranging from Rs400-2,000, which include lip balms, serums, and essential oils. A signature product is the Berry Boost Radiance Mask, which contains Spikenard (Jatamansi), Ashwagandha, Orange Peel, and Rhododendron.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251218141216_7ec1104e0dd63db2fbbfe666034b468fe5b7e6876fde8b5446cb9d9fe27566cf.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251218141216_7ec1104e0dd63db2fbbfe666034b468fe5b7e6876fde8b5446cb9d9fe27566cf" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Looking good by doing good NT"></figure>  Herveda exports to the United States and plans to expand to China and Europe. The products get a 50-100% markup in the international market. The company recently received a grant from UKAid to expand the market as well as build capacity to scale up. It has partnered with Agriplayer software to help to develop QR codes on its products, which consumers will be able to scan to track the product sources and evaluate pricing. Nepal lags behind in rules and regulations, and the lack of monitoring has allowed low quality cosmetic products to penetrate into the market. Herveda has got an international certification from USFTA, which is important for its foray into the export market. “For the cosmetic industry to scale up, there should be a central testing facility that is well equipped and meets international standards. Additionally, export should be made easy,” adds Pandey. “If there are too many barriers to entry, no one will be willing to invest.”

Looking good by doing good

Samrat Upadhyay’s newest novel <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/10/books/review/darkmotherland-samrat-upadhyay.html" target="_blank">Darkmotherland</a> imagines a Kathmandu in political turmoil after a large earthquake. In the aftermath, Home Minister Giridharilal Bhagirath Kumar stages a ‘koo’, and has convinced people that he is the answer to the crisis.&nbsp; He is now known as ‘PM Papa’, and picks up classic dictatorial ways — propaganda, statue-making, history-revising, and a gang of Shiva-worshipping ‘Fundys’.&nbsp; We are introduced to two complicated protagonists. The first is Kranti, a fetching young woman and ‘Madam Mao’, her Communist professor mother. The chef father loved classic rock and died by gas cylinder suicide. Kranti hates her mother, and the Communist group which congregates at her home to plot against PM Papa, although they seem to take forever to get anything done.&nbsp; Kranti has a complicated relationship with the handsome Bhaskar, the middle son of the Ghimirey family oligarchy that is aligned with the dictator. She loves him, but as Bhaskar gets more and more involved with her mother and the Communist group, finds herself heading out to the ‘Bhurey’ (Bhu-kampa Rey-fugee) tents, to spend time with poet Kabiraj.&nbsp; Kranti is also given to delusions, paranoia, and psychosis, convinced that Bhaskar’s family is spying on her, and that one in the Communist group has supernatural powers of suggestion that led to her father’s suicide. Despite mental issues, she marries Bhaskar and into the Ghimirey clan, and the complex nexus between business and politics.&nbsp; The second is Rozy, initially the genderqueer lover of PM Papa who he discovered in the streets, and is described as a ‘gorgeous homosexual’. She turns heads due to her sexuality and beauty, and gets more and more politically powerful as the story moves along.&nbsp; Upadhyay tells us Nepali writers writing in English often feel a pressure to create an “all-embracing world” (interview), but that is what he seems to be getting at with the monumental plot of his novel. Unlike the realism in his previous novels, this one drifts off into magical realism. His narrative blends the ever-present risk of a big earthquake and the actuality of political tremors. The speed of political upheaval seems a little unrealistic for anyone who lived through the 2015 earthquake, although the GenZ protests showed just how quickly a regime can be reduced to a heap of rubble. The age-old question: oppression can be overcome, but what comes after? The PM Papa character is a Gyanendra-Oli-Deuba-Prachanda-Modi-Trump-Papa Doc composite who is good friends with the not even thinly veiled President Corn Hair.&nbsp; Through the character of Kranti, Upadhyay conveys the dynamic between a parent and a child who is now a full adult, on relationships in Kathmandu as marriage looms, on pervasive corruption which one might denounce but have to take advantage of to get things done.&nbsp; Through Rozy, Upadhyay brings attention to the non-binary identity, one that has existed forever in Nepal, and although is discussed a lot in the West lately but not so much here. Upadhyay explores the origins, the present, and the various advantages and disadvantages of the queer.&nbsp; Storytelling in the early parts of the book oscillates between the real and absurd fantasy amidst the physical and political backdrop that does not have to be Nepal -- it could be Modi's India or Trump's America.&nbsp; The reader sees the world through Kranti’s psychosis, or PM Papa’s displays of power, such as when a ‘Sweej’ wrestler is beaten to death with a mace in a wrestling spectacle.&nbsp; These elements <a href="https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/authors/profiles/article/96329-samrat-upadhyay-wants-you-to-expect-the-unexpected.html" target="_blank">coagulate in the novel</a>, and Upadhyay has all the pages at his disposal to prod and push them against one another to see what happens. The novel is still at its best and most engaging when describing vulnerable scenes, of Kranti and her mister, or of Rozy’s messed-up childhood.&nbsp; Any Nepali reading his weighty novel can recognise the allusions and nudges such as the Tourist Area: Thamel, Open Stage: Khula Manch, Tri-Moon: Tri-Chandra etc. But anyone not from these parts may have a tough time keeping track. Keeping a notebook handy may be useful.&nbsp; Ultimately, the novel does work, it provokes and entertains. For best results, serialise the reading over 30 days, not 3 like this reviewer.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025122005124_88d92d9a2c5718436354d9c1ce6a2576931ef3242a37f6b90d84da15fe96dd8d.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2025122005124_88d92d9a2c5718436354d9c1ce6a2576931ef3242a37f6b90d84da15fe96dd8d" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Darkmotherland NT"> </figure>  <h2>More things change, more they remain the same</h2> First US-published Nepali Samrat Upadhyay is the award-winning author of novels and short story collections like Arresting God in Kathmandu, The City Son, Mad Country, and Buddha’s Orphans. Upadhyay is also the Martha C. Kraft Professor of Humanities at Indiana University, where he teaches Creative Writing.&nbsp; Recently in Kathmandu, he talked to the Nepali Times over coffee in Boudha about his writing, his teaching, and his newest novel, DARKMOTHERLAND.&nbsp; Nepali Times: Darkmotherland is 732 pages long. What was it like writing a much longer book? Samrat Upadhyay: Torturous Ha ha ha. Around 2014 I started a story. I knew it was going to be a novel. It was about this woman who is accused of being a Mangalik. Then the big earthquake happened in 2015. I was in the US but my parents were still here, they were living in tents. Then I started thinking, what would happen if a dictator came to power. That’s how PM Papa was born. I think mostly because of his character the novel exploded. I had never written a character like him before. I don’t do any plot outlines when I write. Let’s see where it goes. I like the process of writing to lead to discoveries. If I knew everything then I’d get bored. Not knowing where the storyline might go is very exciting. All these different threads started coming in, the character of Kranti started taking on a big role. Her mother, a Communist-leaning professor, started taking shape. Kranti also had a love-interest from an oligarchical family. The novel just took off and I just continued writing. A novel is as long as it needs to be. The initial draft was 1,700 pages. I was writing pretty fast. I don’t pause to see if the sentences are pretty. I whittled it down, and by the time I sent it to my agent it was 1,100 pages. He was able to sell it to Soho Press. I worked with an editor who suggested some further cuts and expansions. The editing part was even harder than the initial writing, because by that time I was tired of looking at the novel. There was a bit of a delay because of Covid, then we got back on track. What’s your daily process of getting the words on paper? I am a morning writer. I get up in the morning and start writing. You can have all kinds of theories but there is this saying, Shut Up and Write. The writing is where the meat is. You encounter difficulties in writing that you may not encounter when thinking about it. I see this in my students. I knew this was a big project so I knew that if I wanted to get it out I would need to write a lot per day. I got a couple fellowships in the university that gave me a few semesters off teaching. I would write for about 4 or 5 hours. Sometimes I would give myself a 1,000 word deadline, but I’m flexible with it if I don’t get there. You have to be kind and patient. What is your inspiration behind the gender-queer character, Rozy? I’ve always been a strong supporter of LGBT. I would say that at this point half of my students are non-binary or on the gender spectrum. Some of them are going through transitions. In some ways Nepal has become more accepting, but in other ways not. I did a workshop with Blue Diamond Society, and heard pretty harrowing stories. I didn’t intend to create a gender-queer character, but it seemed like the novel was demanding that. Especially in terms of the tyrannical stronghold that PM Papa has over the entire country, it made sense that there would be a counterpart, I wanted to put these things in motion and see how they interact. As I was writing Rozy, her character became very formidable. How much do you draw from Nepali politics? Do you form characters off people you know? Not in a very concrete sense, but I’m always drawing from them. I grew up in the Panchayat System, and lived in Lainchaur. The palace was there. The monarchy was such an institution. But then I was in the US, so I wasn’t here when the pro-democracy movement happened. In some ways it felt like things had changed, but were the same in other ways. I feel the same way now. I do draw upon people. I think my father makes an appearance in my work in various forms, I disguise him, of course. You’ve taught creative writing for a while now, how is literature changing?&nbsp; My students are also writing non-binary characters, because they want to be reflected in the stories. This is something new that we didn’t have. White authors, characters were the default. People of Color on the margins. African American and then Hispanic, South Asian authors were always pushing back on this status quo. When I was growing up in the classroom we were reading a lot of white male authors, but in my own life I was reading Salman Rushdie, African, South African friends and writers. My students have a lot more interest in fantasy, many are writing dystopian. One student is writing a novel where the characters start playing a game, and then they enter the game, and an entire new world opens up. On the one hand there are complaints that students aren’t reading enough, which is true, but my students are producing smarter work. Writing that is a lot more insightful. The calibre of discussion in my graduate-level novel writing classes is mind-boggling to me, and makes me want to keep on teaching. Do Nepali writers who write in English feel a certain pressure, from the market or self-imposed, to make their stories more Nepali? My experience for a long time was that there was a pressure, I felt it true in my case, I was supposed to be the representative of every Nepali. But Nepali writers writing in Nepali are not asked, how are you representing Nepal. At that time there was a lot of pressure to write a novel that is all-embracing, that is supposed to speak on all aspects of the country. Politics felt like an integral part of it, that these novels had to make big political statements. I always felt like this was wrong. I mean, people have to write what they want to write. &nbsp;You write what you want to write, and if it resonates with readers, that’s great. If it doesn’t, that’s fine too. Art isn’t going to speak to everyone. We do a competition every couple of years called Writing Nepal. We make a call for stories, and we decide the best ones. I find it refreshing now that the writing isn’t all about Nepal. The best stories are quite varied. What are Nepalis writing about?&nbsp; Several of the stories are about the role of women in our society, done with a lot of nuance, about the sort of multitasking they have to do. Some of it was deeply historical, some dystopian, the coming of AI. Some of them have an old-timey type of feel, and some of them are very modern, contemporary. The general level of art in movies, TV shows, and novels seems to have regressed compared to say the 90s.&nbsp; I don’t think that’s entirely true. Publishing has been harder, for sure, but there are a lot of novels being published every year. My writing workshop had always been a good vehicle for short stories, but a lot of my students now—even undergraduates—are working on novels. I haven’t formulated my thoughts on AI, it is so new and has hit us so hard. Many of my students are using AI, especially when writing response papers to works of literature or peers, which I find appalling. That’s going to be a struggle. I tell my students, who are you fooling? If you feel that you want to be an artist, or a writer, then what’s the point of using AI? AI-generated stories are also just not that good. They’re almost too perfect, too well put-together, making moves that are easy to detect. There is something about human-written stories that are messy and exciting. But there are also plenty of students who want to do original work and don’t want anything to do with AI.

masked-dance

Kathmandu Valley’s Nil Barahi Dyo Pyakhan

The spirit that is fire

Some chicken, some neck

The sins of our mothers

Looking good by doing good

A dystopian motherland