<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234e99c7e80680e0c495bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="960" height="640"/><figcaption>All photos: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption></figure>The past often feels like a foreign country, as British author LP Hartley once famously wrote, because ‘they do things differently there’.There is a ring of truth in these words as one takes a walk around the Hanuman Dhoka Palace complex in Kathmandu. The temples and the statues, their grandiosity now laced with brown dust, age-worn and almost dwarfed by the rising jungle of cement and iron.But 400 years ago, all this must have felt like an entirely different world.While most of the buildings still stand, having survived earthquakes and successive renovations and remodelling, many of the statues have been stolen and are in exile in museums and private collections overseas.The former palace complex has not changed much since the Malla era, but the surroundings have. The valley is so longer the emerald jewel it once was where Tantric gurus transformed into eagles and appeased the gods, when the air mixed the sweet aroma of flowers rustling in the breeze. The king in one of the three city states could walk to the balcony of his palace and check if there was any new construction taking place in a neighbouring kingdom.There seems at once a great chasm between the past and the present, made wider by the dramatically divergent look of the Nepal Mandala today –– one that noted historian and scholar of Himalayan and Nepali art Éric Chazot tries to commute in his novel Le Seigneur de Katmandou.Read :<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/an-archive-of-ones-own/"> An archive of one’s own</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234ec9c7e80680e0c495cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2304" height="1536"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Published by Éditions el Viso in 2021, this French-language historical fiction is a detailed retelling – and, at times, perhaps even reimagining – of the life and times of Pratap Malla, told in his own voice, almost as though it were from his diary.The narrative weaves together the legends and inscriptions of the Valley in the latter half of the 17th-century to create a portrait of Pratap Malla not just as a king, but also as a poet, a philosopher, a son, a father, and a husband.It is already a daunting task to write a historical novel –– to try and capture a period, its persons and sensibilities often so far removed. As history is rooted in records, it leaves an author little room to indiscriminately invent.Now add into the mix the figure of Pratap Malla, arguably one of the best-known kings of Kathmandu. His historical persona has been embellished and undermined in the last three centuries, owing to folklore, propaganda and scant contemporary records.Historian Lila Bhakta Munankarmi in his book मल्लकालीन नेपाल describes Pratap Malla as being ‘glorious and brave’ and ‘an intellectual and a poet’, who ‘established numerous temples, shrines and chaitya in Kathmandu, many of whom are still standing.’He was a king who built the Rani Pokhari for his queen who was grieving the death of their son, and allegedly kept a harem of 3,000 young girls, even ravishing one 11-year-old and causing her death.This already ambivalent portraiture is coloured further by the Pratap Malla’s cultural and religious legacies, many of which are still standing in Kathmandu: the statue of Hanuman outside the Hanuman Dhoka Palace, Chyasin Dega, the Bhandarkhal pond, Anantapur and Pratappur spires in the Swayambhu complex, Guheshwari temple, Bhimsensthan, and the many chok inside his palace.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/losing-loose-change-in-nepal/">Losing loose change in Nepal</a>, Ashish Dhakal<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234ef9c7e80680e0c495djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="4320" height="6480"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Chazot’s novel is in some ways a representation of this multiplicity of character. It is reminiscent of the cubist paintings – for instance Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase (No. 2) – and makes no attempt to justify actions or pass judgment –– as Chazot himself admits, that is not what he is trying to do with Le Seigneur de Katmandou.It was in fact to understand him, to explore his philosophy and his character. Chazot is a scholar of masks and art of the Himalaya, with a special interest in Tantrism. In 2015, his translation of the Tantra of Chandamaharosana into French at the behest of a Newa guru Dharma Guruji was published, and in 2016 he came out with another book on the Tantric art of Nepal, Tantra: Théologie de l'amour et de la liberté, which goes into the details of its philosophy and aesthetics.Pratap Malla was already a fascinating subject for Chazot who first arrived in Nepal in 1973. A contemporary of Shah Jahan in Mughal India and Louis XIV in Bourbon France, he too showed fierce love for the arts and philosophy, sometimes with a dash of decadence.  Chazot finished the first draft of what would be Le Seigneur de Katmandou in 1979, but it was 600 pages long, he recalls, “and very complicated”.So, he began to rewrite. “I wasn’t writing every day,” he says. “Sometimes I would write a few pages, take a break for a couple years, and then return to it.” The published version is the fourth draft of the work.He had previously planned a series of novels focusing on one figure from each dynasty of rulers of Nepal, the Malla, the Shah and the Rana, but decided to abandon that for the time being to focus on the story of Pratap Malla.“I really wanted to write a good novel,” he says. “It could not be a little book you read once, enjoy and then forget about it. It had to be concrete and well-written with historical facts integrated with the legends of Pratap Malla so that people find it believable.”Chazot could not remove the legends, such as Pratap Malla entering the mythical caverns of Shantipur temple in Swayambhu during a drought to recover a paubha drawn in the Naga’s blood to bring back rain. Or the story of how Jamana Gubhaju once turned himself into an eagle and carried away the heart of a young boy one foreign sorcerer had cut up and promised to bring back to life through Tantra.“I could not say that because I am a historian, none of that could have happened,” he adds. Instead, Chazot built the book as a first-person narration by Pratap Malla, giving us a direct look into the mind and impressions of the king.Sometimes the king himself appears to be an unreliable narrator, which then prompts us to try and sift, and wonder if separating facts and fiction truly matters after all, because would Pratap Malla be the character he is without the legends and stories?A devout and ambitious king, it had been his great wish to unite the three kingdoms of Nepal Mandala fractured by King Jayayakshya Malla some 200 years before, for which he was constantly at war with Yala (Patan) and Khwopa (Bhaktapur).But it was also during this time that Yen (Kantipur, or Kathmandu) saw unprecedented economic growth, fuelled largely by a treaty with Tibet which allowed the Newa merchants of the city a virtual monopoly over trade with India and Tibet.Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-history-of-heritage/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The history of heritage</a>, Ashish Dhakal<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/losing-loose-change-in-nepal/">Losing loose change in Nepal</a>, Ashish Dhakal<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234f59c7e80680e0c495ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="4082" height="4713"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234f99c7e80680e0c495fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="960"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Tibet was also to make a token payment in gold and silver annually to Kathmandu, and Nepal would mint coins for Tibet, allowing the King to profit vastly from these transactions and invest in the arts and culture.“He was an important king of Nepal and there are many inscriptions in his name,” says Chazot. “He was also a tantric king and pretended to know 15 languages. I was always fascinated by him.”The famous stone inscription outside the Hanuman Dhoka Palace to the goddess Kalika is written in 15 languages, including Farsi, Maithili, Hindi, Tibetan, Nepal Bhasa, Arabic, with a surprise appearance by three European words for the seasons: AVTOMNE, WINTER and LHIVERT –– the last one a lasting spelling error, maybe made by a distracted sculptor or scribe.Perhaps the Jesuit fathers Albert d'Orville and Johann Grüber taught the king the words, but the inscription remains undeciphered. In a funny scene with this clever linguistic invention, Chazot describes Pratap Malla remarking: ‘je m’amusais profondément de voir leur embarras lorsque je les interrogeais sur la signification de mon poème!’ (I found it deeply amusing to see their embarrassment when I asked them about the meaning of my poem).Chazot explains: “He called himself Kavindra – the King of poets. For me, this was an interesting idea because he was already a king, but he placed poetry above the kingdom of worldly affairs, and he wanted to be king of that too.”It is said that whosoever can read all 15 languages on that tablet will be blessed with milk miraculously flowing out of a duct at the bottom of the stone inscription. It may have flowed only once.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-historic-kathmandu-beneath-our-feet/">The historic Kathmandu beneath our feet</a>, Sahina Shrestha<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234fb9c7e80680e0c4960jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="960" height="640"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>But Chazot takes care to not confound us with Pratap Malla’s grandeur, for that would only give half-a-portrait. One side of the coin shows the king as an accomplished philosopher with care for his subjects and royal dreams. He wants to learn everything and bring lasting prosperity to his kingdom.On the obverse is an often impatient, lascivious man, a soul that is equally hungry for power as it is for knowledge, a man who may or may not have conspired to have a popular kaji murdered who also happened to be a brother-in-law. And a man who, to repent for killing a prepubescent girl, performs tuladan – the practice of offering Brahmins gold and silver equal to one’s weight.The reader may be tempted to suspect the validity of his claims and contrition, and the book invites one to question the act of writing itself, of telling stories. Where may we draw the line? What is honest and dishonest? The answer, readers must themselves decide.“In building the character and trying to understand,” Chazot adds, “I also want to caution the reader because it is not an objective retelling.” The novel is not just the story of the past, it is a picture of a man who also wants to be a hero. And Pratap Malla himself narrates his story.As the author, however, Chazot has tried to keep the story simple, subtle and coherent, often using juxtaposition to show the contrasting or coalescing viewpoints of cultures, countries and cults.“Brick by brick I put the story together,” he says, taking trips to the Hanuman Dhoka Palace, the temples, poring over the inscription, caressing the curves and the carvings to try and get a sense of what the king himself might have felt walking through his city almost 400 years ago.For written sources, he turned to the works by DR Regmi, Sylvain Lévi, A.W. Macdonald and Anne Vergati Stahl. He hopes Le Seigneur de Katmandou will be an addition to the œuvre that introduces Nepal, its history and culture to the world. An English translation is currently being undertaken by Vajra Publication.“Pratap Malla wanted to be a myth,” Chazot says, “and I have tried to make that come true.”Le Seigneur de KatmandouÉric ChazotPublisher: Éditions el Viso (2021)Pages: 256<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234ff9c7e80680e0c4961jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="157" height="242">Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/losing-loose-change-in-nepal/">A tale of three cities</a>, Ashish Dhakal

Ashish Dhakal

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No time like the past

<figure><img width="853" height="552" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161124/636d185a9c7e80680e0ac7bfjpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>From right to left: BP Koirala, his nephew Naresh Koirala, wife Sushila and sister Bunu on the balcony of Naresh’s apartment in Hong Kong in 1980. All photos, courtesy: NARESH KOIRALA</figcaption></figure>20 July 1982. Naresh Koirala vividly remembers the humid afternoon in Hong Kong when the telephone rang. His wife said it was Girija Prasad Koirala (affectionately called Sanobabu in the family).It was four days since <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=6932#.YWe-sC2B2fQ" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BP Koirala</a> had been flown to Bangkok for treatment, and Naresh Koirala, BP’s nephew and a geotechnicial engineer based in Hong Kong at the time, was preparing to fly to Bangkok.Girija Koirala’s voice on the phone was sombre: “You don’t have to come now. We are taking Sandaju (BP) back to Nepal as the doctor suggested. There is no hope now.”There was silence on the line, there was not much to say. Naresh Koirala put the receiver down and with a heavy heart walked quietly to the balcony on the 14th floor of his flat overlooking the South China Sea. The ocean shimmered in the afternoon sun.  Two years before, BP and Naresh had met on that same balcony, talking about <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/inside-story-of-nepals-rana-dynasty/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal’s democratic future</a>. BP was returning to Nepal from a conference in Japan and was making a weeklong stopover in Hong Kong. BP’s wife, Sushila, and his sister Bunu were also with him.Naresh remembers that this was after the May 1980 referendum in which the people were asked to choose between continuing with a reformed party-less Panchayat system, or a multi-party system. BP had supported multi-party, but despite the growing pro-democracy movement in the country, his side lost by about 400,000 votes.  It was widely believed that the Panchayat system won because the referendum was rigged. But BP decided to accept the result in spite of the heavy pressure from his own party colleagues like Ganesh Man Singh to reject the outcome.   <figure><img width="200" height="200" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161124/636d185d9c7e80680e0ac7c0jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Naresh Koirala</figcaption></figure>Naresh Koirala asked BP about this, who explained his reasoning: once you take part in a voting exercise, it is your responsibility to accept the results, whether you win or lose. The days and weeks following the result of the referendum were the most disheartening for BP. Yet, he did not abandon hope nor the struggle to restore democracy in Nepal. He had faith in the Nepali people and their desire for freedom.Naresh Koirala had become a de facto spokesperson for Hong Kong-based media covering the referendum and remembers an Australian friend telling him: “You had a choice of continuing to live in chains or freedom, you chose chains.”Naresh himself had been puzzled by his uncle’s decision to accept the result. On that balcony that day, he broached the touchy subject: perhaps Nepal was not yet ready for a western parliamentary style democracy – maybe only the literate and those with college degrees should be allowed to vote, he asked.BP had a sharp and quick response: “That is exactly how tyrants think. That the common citizen knows nothing while the dictator himself, being all-knowing, holds all authority over the people’s choices and rights. That is exactly the type of thinking that gave rise to Hitlers and Stalins.”https://youtu.be/p2WA1bGOcPcBP Koirala listed three reasons why he accepted the referendum result: first, he could not say without a doubt that even his own multiparty supporters had not cheated. Second, he believed complaints about irregularities should have been raised before the result was announced, not after his side lost. (“What if we had won, how would we have considered the irregularities then?”)  The third reason was that he feared rejecting the referendum verdict could have precipitated a civil war. “I would not be able to live with such a heavy burden,” he told Naresh.Always thinking about the future consequences of his actions and not just the immediate present, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/america-nepal-and-the-royal-coup/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BP Koirala’s politics</a> was heavily guided by his moral ethics and humanist philosophy. That is why to this day, as his Nepali Congress party under the leadership of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/deuba-5/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Sher Bahadur Deuba</a> is questioned about its adherence to democratic ideals, BP Koirala’s name is often invoked. BP’s own son, Shashank, is in the race for party leadership in the upcoming general convention. <figure><figcaption>BP Koirala (with stick) and other Nepali Congress leaders Girija Koirala, Krishna Prasad Bhattarai and Ganesh Man Singh at Kathmandu airport before he left for cancer treatment in 1982.</figcaption></figure>That evening in Hong Kong, Naresh Koirala also asked BP if he had any resentment or a sense of revenge against kings Mahendra and Birendra for the years of persecution and torment. His reply was: “Such feelings take one nowhere near one’s goal, I am certain the kings themselves judge and evaluate their own actions.”BP Koirala’s dramatic political career spanned the end of the 104-year-old Rana regime in 1950 and the restoration of democracy in 1959. He was the first democratically elected prime minister of the country, and held the office for 18 months before being deposed and imprisoned by <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/putsch-ek/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">King Mahendra in the coup of 15 December 1960</a>. He spent the rest of his life either in prison or exile, and in steadily deteriorating health. <figure><img width="800" height="1084" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161124/636d18619c7e80680e0ac7c2jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>BP Koirala at Ocean Park in 1980, when he was already unwell.</figcaption></figure>Even then, he used to say that he endured physical, emotional, and familial troubles because of the love and support of the Nepali people, friends, and family. The hurdles that punctuated his life all came with the job description of politics. In fact, he always said that he was more worried about Sushila, and how to give his wife the life she deserved. Naresh Koirala recalls that during his Hong Kong stopover in 1982, BP, Sushila and Bunu were returning to their car at Ocean Park after sight-seeing, when BP was slightly separated from the group.  Naresh looked back and took a picture of BP lost in thought, hands akimbo. Bunu whispered to Naresh that BP was not well, and he went back to where he was standing. BP waved his hand as if to say not to worry: “It is all right, I will join you.”Naresh Koirala has kept a letter BP wrote to him dated 14 December 1981, asking him not to be despondent. He writes: ‘I have undergone all kinds of hardship and deprivation. I have no sense of suffering.’ He was at the time undergoing chemotherapy in Nepal for throat cancer and had returned from Bombay’s Tata Hospital. Weakened by the disease and chemotherapy, his days were spent in the company of visitors and well-wishers with whom he engaged in lively conversations. He continues in the letter: ‘Do not be despondent, I have lived a full life – very exciting, adventurous and, in my term, a missionary life … The greatest satisfaction in life is the constant awareness that you are constantly being used up by your own mission – I have that satisfaction.’He said his only regret was that he wished that he had spent more time with his children, especially his daughter, Chetana. <img width="621" height="834" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161124/636d18649c7e80680e0ac7c3jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="619" height="831" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161124/636d18669c7e80680e0ac7c4jpeg.jpg" alt="">BP Koirala’s handwritten letter in English to Naresh Koirala from his hospital bed while undergoing chemotherapy in 1982.That evening in Hong Kong a year earlier, BP confided to Naresh: “If anyone can say when confronting death that they have no regrets and resentment, and that they were dedicated to their work, that is a content and satisfied life.”In July 1982, when Naresh came to Kathmandu, BP was already severely worn out by cancer. BP dedicated his life to uplifting the living standard of Nepalis through genuine democracy, but he feared that he would not live to see his life’s work completed. It is worth pondering what he would have thought of Nepal today, nearly 40 years after his death.In the last four decades, the country saw a People’s Movement that turned the country into a constitutional monarchy, a decade-long war, a massacre of the royal family, an unstable transition to federalism, a secular republican constitution, and the current Nepali Congress-led coalition with the Maoists.The cancer spread, and family members decided to take him abroad for treatment. On the morning of the day of departure, <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=4714%22 %5Cl %22.YWVIWC8RppQ%22 %5Ct %22_blank" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Ganesh Raj Sharma</a> came to BP’s residence at Chabahil with a tape to record his autobiography, as he had been doing for two months.  The interview is yet to be published, Nepali edition of his <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=5205%22 %5Cl %22.YWVFLC8RppQ%22 %5Ct %22_blank" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Atmabrittanta memoir</a> only include photos taken at the time. At one point in the tape, Sharma asks BP, “How do you want the Nepali people to remember you?”  Lying on his bed, surrounded by his niece, Sailaja, and his daughter-in-law, Nona, BP looked tired. Naresh Koirala was taking photographs and remembers thinking that BP must have been weary with the thoughts of the impending travel. <figure><img width="464" height="418" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161124/636d18689c7e80680e0ac7c5jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>A bed-ridden BP Koirala gives his last interview to Ganesh Raj Sharma at his home in Chabahil with niece Shailaja Acharya and sister-in-law Nona Koirala.</figcaption></figure>BP replied in his rasping voice into a small microphone: “I do not think I have done anything great or worth remembering, but if people wish to remember me, I hope they think of me as a decent human being who tried to honestly, sincerely and wholeheartedly to work for the welfare of the people and the nation.”Adapted by Ashish Dhakal from Naresh Koirala's बीपीका आखिरी दिनहरू published in <a href="https://www.himalkhabar.com/category/samaj%22 %5Ct %22_blank" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Himal monthly magazine</a>. Watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2WA1bGOcPc&amp;t=21s%22 %5Ct %22_blank" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">video of Naresh Koirala</a> remembering BP Koirala.For BP’s diary from Sundarijal Jail: read series in Nepali Times, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/nepali-times-search/?q=back+at+sundarijal" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Back at Sundarijal</a>.

Last Days with BP Koirala

<figure><img width="1280" height="897" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be62b9c7e80680e08778ejpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Photo: Kathasatha</figcaption></figure>A lot happened in 1999. I turned 18, finished high school and got accepted by an American college. And the internet, which had crept into the Nepali marketplace, finally made it to my bedroom. The arrival of the Internet coincided with a key moment in my life – my coming to terms with my sexuality. So begins Niranjan Kunwar’s memoir Between Queens and the Cities.Over the next 300 or so pages divided into six parts, Kunwar takes us on a journey that spans two decades, from the neighbourhoods in New York to the gallis and bhattis of Kathmandu. Between Queens and the Cities is a beautifully crafted coming of age story of a gay man in Nepal navigating life while exploring his identity and finding a place to call home.The book begins when Kunwar is 19 in New York. Freed from the constraints of Nepal, he enjoys the independence America has to offer. He promptly falls in love with New York, making plans to return to the city once he graduates, and he does. He works as a teacher, first at a private school in the city and then in a school in Brooklyn. He finds his friends and falls into a routine. But then life creeps in, the commutes are too long, the mornings too early. Paper works for green card falls through and over time he returns to Nepal to pursue a literary journey.All these are punctuated by fear and anxiety he has regarding his sexuality, the relationship with his parents, and the need for love and acceptance. <figure><img width="800" height="533" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be62e9c7e80680e08778fjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>It is difficult to capture universality in a way that also celebrates uniqueness, but Kunwar does that skillfully. By choosing the themes that he did, Kunwar has made his story matter not just to him but to the readers as well.As anyone who has called NYC their home at any point in life can attest, the city does that to you: it makes you fall in love with it. Only in New York will you pay the deposit for an apartment with half-clogged bathroom and return happy and content.Living in a foreign country can also be lonely, and the paperwork frustrating. As an immigrant, there is a sense of not belonging, the conscious sense of otherness even with the closest of native friends.But anyone who returned to Nepal after spending time away from home can also relate to the feeling of being robbed of freedom once back, the confusion and the self-doubt of whether they have made the right decision, as well as the uphill task of rebuilding their lives and relationships with friends and family, and finding or starting over a career.https://youtu.be/kw4w9rkHkoM?fbclid=IwAR1OVzLHcyqVuuNocKJj3UshxsaAZocO7I9X0pyTTTX7v7I9A6_h59zEbKMWhen it comes to the stories of LGBTIQ individuals, it is easy to fall into the trap of a dominant narrative. Through repetition and often limitation of the stories we hear we create a stereotype of the community that does not justify the broader identity. Kunwar while admitting his privilege attempts to reveal the community’s wide diversity, through his own story and those of others.In the final part of the memoir Kunwar tells the stories of Rukhsana, Bhakti and Sadhana, Aditya, Esan, and Sudip and Apekshya. Their stories each unique in their experiences but tied by the thread of highlighting parts of a marginalised population that too often remain invisible and ignored.Kunwar sweeps his life beautifully into words. Reading the book is like listening to a friend narrate his life story. He does not spend too much time in details and is eloquent and earnest in his storytelling. Between Queens and the Cities, is a great addition to the (finally) emerging literary works from the community.Sahina Shrestha is Digital Products Strategist at Nepali Times, and did her Masters at New York University.Between Queens and the CitiesPages: 305Publisher: <a href="https://fineprint.com.np">FinePrint</a>Launch: 5 December 2020More about the launch <a href="https://www.kathasatha.org.np/events/book-launch-between-queens-and-the-cities" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">here.</a><a href="_wp_link_placeholder"> </a> <img width="1280" height="897" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be6319c7e80680e087790jpeg.jpg" alt="">Excerpts:“What about the bathroom?” I asked the broker. The paint on the wall was chipped; the bathtub was half-filled with water. “No need to worry,” he assured us. “They are still working on it. It will be complete by the first week of June.”The work in the bathroom never got completed. The memory of my first year in New York is tainted by the perpetually half-clogged bathtub. Aliza and I had to plan our showers; one waited for almost an hour for the tub to drain completely after the other one had used it. We made numerous phone calls to the management of the building, took turns waiting for the plumber to show up.**Anyone who leaves one’s homeland owes some kind of return. This is what I believe. I believe that circular is natural and linear is artificial. A back and forth process leads to growth and adventure while a one-way mindset can be limiting.I keep thinking of that moment in New York when I decided to return. It was late afternoon in March, dusk was approaching fast. After wrapping up the day’s work, I called my lawyer to inquire about my green card. I remember the brusque tone of her voice – Had I not read the emails she had sent- and her message, “Sorry.”At that moment, I remember, for the first time, a flicker of courage, a small guiding voice inside me. I sat down after clicking the phone shut. And I remember deciding. That moment, that room, on that day, I remember deciding that it was time to return. **There’s routine, there’s regularity, then there’s reporting. I try to capture raw emotions before they mature and mutate. Certain dialogues demand urgent documentation. Sometimes, I pay more attention to these tasks than refining aspects of my craft.A modest readership emerges. That is another reason why I write. Because I remember how growing up gay in Kathmandu felt like. When I was younger, there were no stories about Nepali men who liked men. And we know how stories can inform and teach, can show us the way.

Sahina Shrestha

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Between Queens and Kathmandu

Sha Bahadur Gurung was 30 years old when he was arrested for participating in a peaceful protest. He died aged 65 last week in Bhutan’s Chamgang Central Prison. He was among 31 prisoners of conscience in Bhutan, many of whom are serving long sentences for opposing the regime’s forcible expulsion of 100,000 of its Lhotsampa people in the early 1990s. ‘Mr Gurung died on 15 December in his prison cell under circumstances that raise serious concerns about custodial negligence and long-term abuse,” said a statement by the Global Campaign for the Release of Political Prisoners in Bhutan (GCRPPB) based in The Hague which demanded an external probe, justice and release of remaining political prisoners. Gurung was from Chirang and was arrested in 1990 while serving in the Royal Bhutan Army, and accused of having sympathies for the Lhotsampa people. He was mostly held at the notorious Rabuna Prison in Wangdi Phodrang District.&nbsp; Gurung’s relatives in the United States said he had endured prolonged physical and psychological abuse during his imprisonment, and repeatedly subjected to torture and inhumane treatment. They believe the decades of ill-treatment had damaged his health, ultimately leading to his death. Earlier this month, Gurung was transferred from Rabuna to Chamgang Central Prison. On 14 December. He had gone to bed after dinner without any visible sign of distress. He was found unconscious in his cell the next morning.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224151248_5fc8305ecd320d89b9e343c04a1a897dc1353353da55b6d277f5398034b265ea.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251224151248_5fc8305ecd320d89b9e343c04a1a897dc1353353da55b6d277f5398034b265ea" data-rendition-name="original" width="902" height="1103" loading="lazy" alt="Sha Bahadur Gurung NT"> <figcaption>Sha Bahadur Gurung, who died at age 65 in prison in Bhutan after serving 30 years for expressing political opinion.</figcaption> </figure>  He was referred to a hospital in Thimphu, suggesting that he was still alive during transfer to a local health post. But it appears that he had already died before being taken from prison. Gurung’s death occurred two days before Bhutan’s National Day on 17 December, when families, supporters, and human rights advocates worldwide had hoped for the release of political prisoners through a royal amnesty. Instead, the death of one of the longest-serving political prisoners has caused grief and anger in the Bhutanese diaspora.&nbsp; “We strongly condemn the treatment and death of Gurung, a peaceful and justice-loving Bhutanese citizen,” the V statement said. ‘This tragedy raises serious questions about the treatment of political prisoners in Bhutan and stands in stark contrast to the country’s international image under the principles of Gross National Happiness, compassion, and mindfulness.’ Earlier this year, The <a href="https://www.ohchr.org/en/special-procedures/wg-arbitrary-detention/opinions-adopted-working-group-arbitrary-detention/opinions-adopted-working-group-arbitrary-detention-its-101st-session" target="_blank">United Nations Working Group on Arbitrary Detention</a> said the Bhutan government was detaining citizens without parole for <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/detainees-in-dire-straits-in-bhutan-s-prisons" target="_blank">expressing political opinion</a>. The New York-based Human Rights Watch (HRW) said in 2023 that there were least 37 <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/03/13/bhutan-free-long-term-political-prisoners" target="_blank">political prisoners</a> in Bhutan’s jails. Of them, 32 belong to the Nepali-speaking Lhotshampa community, which has faced <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2003/06/18/nepal-bhutanese-refugees-rendered-stateless" target="_blank">decades of discrimination and abuse</a> and eviction. Most of them were convicted because of prohibited political activity between 1990 and 2008. One political prisoner, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/no-country-for-dissent?fbclid=IwAR07lpitMBWAYSkny_3d_smQBlmoxAOQm1OxdNtl-27h8mV0RNO9IxVY2qs" target="_blank">Madhukar Monger</a>, who was released in 2023 after serving 29 years described brutal conditions in <a href="https://www.hrw.org/asia/bhutan" target="_blank">Bhutan</a>'s jails. Political prisoners were not given enough food, and medical care, he said, urging the internaitoonal community to press for the release of prisoners of conscience.&nbsp; In March, <a href="https://www.hrw.org/about/people/meenakshi-ganguly" target="_blank">Meenakshi Ganguly</a>, Deputy Asia director at Human Rights Watch, urged Bhutan’s international partners to call on the Bhutan government to release all remaining political prisoners immediately.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224161216_9d11a78ed5490091c595341900e4c26f5c0dd0328718f6930ef19c1e9b7f95a6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20251224161216_9d11a78ed5490091c595341900e4c26f5c0dd0328718f6930ef19c1e9b7f95a6" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1422" loading="lazy" alt="Bhutan political prisoners NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224161216_176855f3d3df42d24ac7e77372bbf49115695b732a6c094a66267e969111dfca.jpg" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="20251224161216_176855f3d3df42d24ac7e77372bbf49115695b732a6c094a66267e969111dfca" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1420" loading="lazy" alt="Bhutan political prisoners NT"> </figure>  &nbsp;

Bhutan political prisoner dies in detention

‘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

Nepal’s Gurkha soldiers have a well-deserved reputation worldwide for uncommon valour and loyalty. However, what happened in Hawaii in 1986 and the long struggle for fair pay and pension shows that the formidable fighters from Nepal also do not tolerate injustice. The Hong Kong-based 1st Battalion of the 7th Duke of Edinburgh’s Own Gurkha Rifles was in Hawaii for jungle warfare training exercises at the Joint Pacific Multinational Readiness Center when they beat up their commanding officer, Major Corin Pearce. &nbsp;&nbsp; The Gurkhas said Pearce had insulted them, and 111 soldiers were dismissed. Pearce suffered broken ribs and a head injury, and was himself also discharged. The incident got worldwide publicity and enforced the belief that the Nepalis were not treated fairly in the British Army. It also led some retired soldiers to begin a decades-long struggle for compensation at par with their British peers.&nbsp; Retired British Gurkha soldier Shankar Rai in his book Triumph and Tears revisits the Hawaii incident which he witnessed, and also his experience in the Falkland Islands/Malvinas war in 1982.&nbsp; He has lots of grievances: unequal treatment and injustice from the British Army towards himself and his comrades. This is an indignant and disillusioned account of the good, the bad and the ugly of being a British Gurkha, which he says let him down despite his service and belief in it.&nbsp; The book could also be a cautionary tale of how one person on a power-trip can tarnish two centuries of the shared history of Nepal and the UK, as well as ruin the lives of those involved. It also is proof that loyalty should never be taken for granted. Four years after defeating the Argentinians in the Falklands, several companies and platoons of Gurkha rifles were stationed in Hawaii in 1986 for joint US-UK ‘Exercise Union Pacific’ military exercises. The goal was to ‘perfect the art of marine warfare in collaboration with the US Marine Force’. The rules were that a British Gurkha company commander needed to have the rank of major and pass a Nepali language test. Captain Pearce was the son-in-law of a British Brigadier on extra-regiment employment, and this rule was waived. He was appointed Acting Major. Pearce didn’t bother to learn Nepali language or culture, and from Rai’s account took every chance to belittle and embarrass the Gurkhas as poor, stupid, rude, backward, and lucky to be there. He writes: ‘After Captain Pearce reached Hawaii, he began to project himself as a master and the Gurkhas as servants, to show off to the Americans.’ The author also recounts other slights, such as only receiving a fourth of the rations they were due during hard training, being forced to train even when some of the soldiers had high fever, and claims to have ‘civilised’ the Nepalis.&nbsp; Pearce had been to eastern Nepal before the training and seen the grinding poverty. He kept telling the Gurkhas how lucky they were to be in the job, and that they were making ‘more money than Nepal’s prime minister’. During the final farewell party in Hawaii, Pearce set up tables to form a saluting platform, and asked the Gurkha pipe and drum band to march around him while playing. The enraged soldiers could not take it anymore, and after the party an inebriated group ran Captains Pearce and Chandra Kumar Pradhan out of their tents and beat them up. Both officers broke ribs, and the major needed 15 stitches on his head. ‘This sorry and unseemly episode is considered to have been entirely at odds with the Brigade of Gurkhas’ tradition of loyalty and gallant service in the British Army. It is regarded as an isolated and untypical event, which will not be permitted to detract from the high esteem in which the Brigade is held,’ reads the report of an investigation. Most of the 1/7 company soldiers were dismissed whether they had been involved in the assault or not. The author describes the shame that followed, with dismissed soldiers returning to Nepal with lost face.&nbsp; ‘I burned with humiliation, and life scared me,’ writes the author, whose father told him that he was ashamed to call him his son. ‘Many of my friends’ girlfriends left them and married other people. Rifleman Khem Gurung (21162015) of Itahari committed suicide,’ writes Rai, adding that those dismissed were blacklisted, and could not get other jobs.&nbsp; They tried to pursue legal action against the British Government, but backed down when they could not afford expensive hotshot lawyers, and would not have the money to cover the British government’s legal fees in the likely case of a loss in court. Gurkhas who had served for four years in the UK were allowed to move there, an option that many of those dismissed in the Hawaii incident took, including the author, who now lives in Oxford. Rai pours out his hurt and emotion in the book. Towards the end, he writes: ‘I depend on small jobs for livelihood. In the remaining time, I actively raise the issue of the victims of the Hawaii incident. We are burdened with insults, hatred, and contempt for a lifetime. It was harsher than a court martial, too heavy to bear.’ The is a slim book, and is a quick, engaging read of an incident 30 years ago, and Rai writes with a soldier’s precision. Even though the anger shows even after all these years, there is no over-dramatisation in the narrative.&nbsp; The first part of the book is about sailing across the South Atlantic in the QEII, which had been converted into a troop ship to take the Gurkhas to war. The soldiers from landlocked Nepal were mostly sea-sick, but were happy to get two cans of beer a day. Barclays Bank even had a branch on board. Rai’s descriptions of the friendships he developed in the Company and on the battlefield are poignant. They braved Argentinian bombs, dug trenches and fought through the rain in the Southern Hemisphere winter. There are vignettes of sharing tea with fellow Nepalis, seeing comrades fall, and finding pictures of wives and children in the pockets of dead young Argentine soldiers. Behind the prestige, honour and myths of being a Gurkha soldier, it seems this is just another job with nepotism, horrible bosses and bad pay. But such is the desperation that up to 20,000 young Nepalis still apply for 300 openings in the British Army every year. &nbsp;&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251227041256_694a253e782c83b0bf89fc1b9840b0ade3f7beca2d0b01dbc4fcd3e63c207f50.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251227041256_694a253e782c83b0bf89fc1b9840b0ade3f7beca2d0b01dbc4fcd3e63c207f50" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Triumph and tears book details NT"> </figure>

Not taking loyalty for granted

This is the 77th 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. I was in Grade 3 when my father left for Saudi Arabia. Letters he sent occasionally contained photos. We had to get used to matching the person in the photos with him when he came home. Over two decades later, I left behind my son a day after he was born to go to Korea.&nbsp; He was five when I returned, and he just could not believe I was the same person he spoke on video calls. To convince him that it was indeed me, I had to call him on video from the other room.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224021240_3eead7a26ee34bab17e1b462d3e53ae8b4dc95151478e55b09f2855989364015.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251224021240_3eead7a26ee34bab17e1b462d3e53ae8b4dc95151478e55b09f2855989364015" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Jumli coffee DD"> </figure>  Technology, it turns out, is no replacement to proximity and physical presence.&nbsp; When my father was in Saudi Arabia, my mother died. My father could not return to Nepal immediately, and my grandmother took in my two sisters and me.&nbsp; My studies took a hit. I started working in a shoe shop, and earned Rs2,100 a month. I wanted to start a shoe shop with support from my father when he returned. He did not, and neither did my other relatives. Perhaps they doubted my business sense. Or they had other priorities.&nbsp; Whatever it was, this feeling of not having someone to back me up hit me deeply but give me confidence. Without alternatives, I decided to prepare to migrate to Korea. I studied for the language exam and was among the first cohort under the G2G scheme. When I was finally matched with a Korean employer, I could not be happier.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224021248_5f681863a9aa99f31f3241158e636b32aca9fdaa7c3f5c19dd67e3de2068a3b5.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251224021248_5f681863a9aa99f31f3241158e636b32aca9fdaa7c3f5c19dd67e3de2068a3b5" data-rendition-name="original" width="1064" height="823" loading="lazy" alt="Jumli coffee DD"> </figure>  Not having received any support from those around me, the Korean offer made me feel like I had won in life. My grandmother was happy because it would increase family income. She had three additional mouths to feed, and we were quickly growing up. She worried about getting my sisters married. My first stint in Korea, however, was not what I expected. I had to change jobs multiple times, either because the company I worked for was unable to pay me, there was no work, or I had an accident. The odds just were not in my favour. The global financial crisis had taken a toll on the economy.&nbsp; Even so, I managed to help pay for my sisters' weddings and had modest savings. But there was not much to show for it compared to my peers. Never again, I thought, as I said goodbye to Korea.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224021240_f303dd30f922776a30a1871b38e5420534e73b99b7b1444b4658c4eca535d043.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251224021240_f303dd30f922776a30a1871b38e5420534e73b99b7b1444b4658c4eca535d043" data-rendition-name="original" width="856" height="1279" loading="lazy" alt="Jumli coffee DD"> </figure>  I came home and got married. I started a mobile repair shop. But it did not work out well either, and I was soon headed back to Korea despite my misgivings. I left a day after my son was born, and this time I was determined to make it work in Korea. I was placed in a company that made golf balls. It paid well, but the job was just for money, I needed to do something more with my future that would help me stand on my own feet once I was back in Nepal. I was intrigued by the three-in-one instant coffee sachets in Korea that had coffee, milk and sugar. Back home in our village in Kaski, our cooperative grew coffee that either went to waste or fetched very low prices. My sisters and I used to pick the sweet and tasty coffee cherries.&nbsp; I saw a great business prospect in turning the beans into coffee sachets, and started exploring this. That was my mission: to make instant coffee packets widely available in Nepal. It was just a matter of understanding the process so I went to a migrant resource centre in Korea to inquire about where I could learn this.&nbsp; I was advised to take barista classes, and I found out that sachet coffee is actually not healthy and I should instead learn about fresh brewed coffee. That seemed even more exciting. How coffee beans could be ground and sold for over Rs450 in Korean cafes that people waited in line for bemused me. During my free time, I spent all my energy learning about coffee. I took training in barista, coffee sensory, machine repair and roasting. I had to rely on the generosity of Koreans who were willing to take a chance on me as I had different constraints such as lack of network, a busy work schedule at my regular job but even then, people offered to help.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224021244_86bbfcdcbe8925c46efac526225aea226b7987290f8107e991d8e764cbb01155.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251224021244_86bbfcdcbe8925c46efac526225aea226b7987290f8107e991d8e764cbb01155" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Jumli coffee NT"> </figure>  I was so obsessed that whenever I spent time on leisure activities during days off, I felt guilty. My golf ball job was just for income, I had to invest in my real post-Korea life. Balancing work and learning everything about coffee was not easy. Not only did I pay for some of the lessons, I even skipped overtime hours for them. But this was for my future. I must have consulted over a dozen coffee experts in Korea to share their experience and connect me to people. I could not afford to be shy about asking strangers for help. When the pandemic hit, we were granted a one-year visa extension, and I took it as an opportunity to invest in myself. I had seen great business prospects for coffee machine repair service in Pokhara because people had to rely on Kathmandu. But to learn machine repair and maintenance, I had to spend more time and weekend classes were not going to be sufficient.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224021248_18996ee0b6292070add202cf948f5b0b5a09e5b11022b9d961a68a5a886fc5f4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20251224021248_18996ee0b6292070add202cf948f5b0b5a09e5b11022b9d961a68a5a886fc5f4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1138" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Jumli coffee DD"> </figure>  I moved to a training company and worked just enough to maintain my legal status. I did not take overtime shifts. Even my roommates barely saw me because I used to come home long after our duty hours from my coffee training. I also needed actual job experience so I asked my trainer to let me shadow him at work.&nbsp; The on-the-job exposure to repair and maintenance work gave me more confidence and expertise. When I returned to Nepal, I came home with a suitcase full of coffee machine parts. I have started a coffee shop called Jumli, provide machine repair services and have also started growing my own coffee. The idea is to be a one stop shop for all players in the coffee industry, whether it is farmers or coffee shop owners who need Nepal-grown coffee or machine repair services or coffee lovers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224021248_0fd28dab75d1eddbc16ab0aeda2ce7fcd4aceb07e7a381d4ce872b5184bea086.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251224021248_0fd28dab75d1eddbc16ab0aeda2ce7fcd4aceb07e7a381d4ce872b5184bea086" data-rendition-name="original" width="1321" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Jumli coffee DD"> </figure>  It is not always easy being an entrepreneur in Nepal. Sometimes, when I am on shaky ground, I close my eyes and talk to my mother in my head for clarity. Some of these conversations are replays of the things she told me when I was growing up. I didn’t take them seriously then, but now they offer important nuggets of wisdom about life, society, and how to navigate difficult times. I have a lot of hope for the future. I am now laying the groundwork to one day export Nepal’s specialty coffee to the international market, meeting global standards of quality. Programs like the Returnee Innovators for Nepal (RIN) help in equipping you with the skills to better pitch your business and give exposure and networks. Even now, I rely on my trainer in Korea for guidance or to access spare parts that are not available in Nepal. I have come a long way from the day I cluelessly chose ‘American-O’ coffee because it was the easiest drink to pronounce in the menu. I never thought I would be making a living from coffee back home in Nepal one day.&nbsp;