This is the 76th 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. We did not have a whole lot, but did not grow up in scarcity either. When I was in Grade 7, my father migrated to Malaysia but returned just after 18 days and was heavily in debt. It is the interest and not the principal from loan sharks that ruins borrowers. As we grew up, family expenses rose and my father migrated again to Qatar, determined to make it work this time. I used to watch him via IMO in buildings under construction eating rice out of plastic bags. There was no AC, no oven, no shade. Those images are etched into my memory.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="600" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Family picture from 2014 sent to Anil's father who was working in Qatar.</figcaption> </figure>  After Grade 10, I was encouraged to take up computers in +2 as I was a bright student. I did not have access to a computer, and the 30 minutes we got weekly at the computer lab was just not enough. My parents could not afford to buy a computer, but a friend had both a desktop and laptop at home.&nbsp; I did his homework in exchange for using his computer. When my father in Qatar, found out he bought me a laptop. Today, a decade later, I am still using it. Maybe I valued the computer more because it was bought with my father’s sweat. The laptop reminds me of how he toiled overseas.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil still uses the laptop his father bought him ten years ago.</figcaption> </figure>  The money he sent home did help with household expenses. My mother did tailoring, although the income was not stable. After my father returned from Qatar, we he bought a three-wheeler which he still uses in Makwanpur. After completing Grade 12, I came to college in Kathmandu to study IT. It cost Rs20,000 a month in tuition, rent and food just to survive. I could not complete my bachelor’s. Although my father kept saying, “Don’t worry, I am here,” he just did not have the money to pay for me. So, I took up a data entry job which helped cover living expenses. The pandemic meant my father could not earn money from his auto-rickshaw. We had no savings and had outstanding loans. Migration was the only way to get us out of the rut. I told my father that both of us should go abroad to earn some money. He could return earlier and I would stay on.&nbsp; My father agreed, and I visited recruiting agencies with both our passports. After reviewing our CVs, they said it was easy to find jobs for my father but not for me, given my educational background and my experience in software. “How can we send you for jobs as a cleaner or security guard?” they asked. I finally found a job in Romania, and decided to have my father stay back because going to Europe would have doubled the cost. My mother and sister came to see me off at Kathmandu airport. It felt just like my father leaving for Qatar many years ago. Perhaps some day, my brother would also leave in a similar manner, I thought.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's sister hugging him at the airport before he left for Romania.</figcaption> </figure>  In Romania, I work in a factory making car seat belts. It is not physically demanding and it is indoors. Even though I did not share it with my family, the initial period was difficult as I had no experience standing and working for so many hours at a time. Once, when I was tired at work, I wondered how my father managed in Qatar in a much more physically taxing job. Here I was not carrying heavy loads, my work was not outdoors. I was so emotional, I wrote a ghazal in my head. The words “खाडीको तातो घाम” kept repeating in my head. After work, I jotted down the verse in my diary:&nbsp; बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot become like you कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot imagine how hard it is म मान्छे हेर्दा मात्रै ठूलो I only look like a grown man बानी अझै बच्चै छ But I am still childish किनकि जता त्यतै जान मन लाग्छ I feel like roaming around जे देख्यो त्यो खान मन लाग्छ Eat whatever I see. न पैसा बच्छ I cannot save. न खाएको कुरा सबै पच्छ The food doesn’t agree with me&nbsp; कहिले काहीँ त मलाई म्याकडोनाल्डको बर्गर पनि पच्दैन Not even a burger at McDonalds तर प्लास्टिकमा पोको परेको त्यो चिसो भात But how did my father eat that cold rice खाडीको त्यो तातो घाममा सेक्दै खाँदा मेरो बुवालाई कसरी पच्छ? Under the hot Gulf sun? मेरो पेटले यस्तो पचाउन सक्दै सक्दैन I would not be able to eat that. बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot be like you. कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot say how difficult it is.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil Gole's diary entry of his ghazal compares his migration with his father’s journey.</figcaption> </figure>  I posted it online, and it went viral. But more importantly, people found the words relatable and engaging. My sister first saw it on Tiktok and shared it with my mother. It moved them to tears while my father kept watching it on repeat, deep in thought. Even though my birth father decided to leave my mother when I was less than a year old, my step father never made me feel the absence of anything. My friend from Grade 6 in Makwanpur, Sharan, introduced me to ghazal. He was six years older because he had to pause his studies during the Maoist conflict. He worked in a brick factory in Kathmandu, saved money, and returned to school. He was very talented and we became friends through the school children’s club.&nbsp; Sharan and I spent most of our time together, sharing meals to save money and even skipping classes. One day, in Grade 9 when our teacher was absent, he wrote a ghazal on the spot and explained the form, the rhyme, the meter. I listened half-heartedly as it was not of interest. We left it at that. Shortly after, Sharan was diagnosed with leukemia and he could not finish exam. Because he was a sharp student, the teachers decided to not hold him back. He died just before Grade 10. I cried. I do not have any pictures of Sharan. He had small ears, and I used to tease him that people with small ears do not live long. That still haunts me. <div class="embed-block"><div style="max-width: 56vh;"><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 177.7778%;"><iframe src="https://cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fshorts%2FLpizGQWTbMs%3Ffeature%3Dshare&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> At the school assembly at the start of the new year, we were asked to share a talent. I did not know what to do, but I wrote a ghazal just as Sharan had taught me and dedicated it to him. Halfway through, I started crying and the principal took me to his office and calmed me down.&nbsp; I do not write much poetry except a few posts on social media here and there. But a video of me reciting went viral on TikTok and that encouraged me to write more. That made me feel validated, and I began writing more about real life experiences. It has been three years in Romania. My brother will also be joining me soon. Things have improved for us financially, but we are not where we want to be. We will get there. When we do, I will resume my studies. I’m interested in programming, especially back-end development and working with databases. It is on hold right now.&nbsp; I do not have big dreams, I just want to make sure my parents get what they deserve. It is okay if I get delayed if my parents are able to access what they had scarified for us when they were of my age. For now, my family is my priority.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's family.</figcaption> </figure>

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My father’s son

This is the 34th edition of Diaspora Diaries, a regular series in Nepali Times with stories of Nepalis who have lived or are working abroad. Growing up in rural Gorkha, I saw planes long before I saw cars. Those tiny silver dots that flew over our village on their way to or from Kathmandu.&nbsp; It was only when I was big enough to go to the bazar town nine-hour walk away to buy salt and other household goods that I saw a bus for the first time. I remember staring at it in awe, walking around it touching the metal surface with the tip of my fingers. I did not get on the bus. I had nowhere to go.&nbsp; Years later, as a grown-up, I found myself inside an airplane for the first time flying from Kathmandu to Malaysia. &nbsp;That was nearly 20 years ago, and I got a job in a factory that made files and envelopes of all sizes that were exported to nine countries.&nbsp; My starting salary allowed me to save around Rs7,000 per month.Even for that salary, I had paid over Rs100,000 as recruitment fees. The management responded to my resignation requests with offers of higher salary.&nbsp; I rose up the ranks to become team leader in charge of 144 fellow migrant workers from different countries, including Nepal. I had to make sure they delivered products on time while ensuring their safety.&nbsp; The work was difficult and required both mental and physical strength. As team leader, I was responsible if they made mistakes. One wrong move and you could lose a finger in one of those cutting machines with sharp blades. Our thumbs were valued at Rs2 million each, with other fingers much lower. That was the compensation we got if we lost them in a job accident.&nbsp; In the first few months after their arrival, most fellow workers got homesick and struggled with the physical demands of the job. I oversaw their work, but above me was also a CCTV camera that oversaw me. I could not ignore a worker who was taking a nap or slacking off.&nbsp; This was in the mid-2000s. I was one of the first Nepalis in my workplace when I had first arrived, so my circumstances had compelled me to learn to speak Malay.&nbsp; Perhaps this is also why I was a good fit for the team leader post so I could help with translations. Sometimes, I had to translate the supervisors' scolding or the workers' apologies or grievances about unmet demands.&nbsp; I often did more than translate, though. To lessen the blow of an angry word or humanise the challenges of toiling around the clock, far from home. After all, our lives oscillated between an angry "balik rumah" (go home) or encouraging "bagus" (well done). We all toiled 12 hours a day single-mindedly to provide for our families back home. &nbsp; One tough part of my job was handing out coveted overtime slots on Sundays, when the pay for workers was double. We were there for the money, and the extra payment held a lot of significance to workers.&nbsp; They begged me for overtime hours, but I had to assure them that the rotations would be balanced. If not this weekend, they would get the hours next weekend.&nbsp; In Malaysia, my colleagues and I used to pool our resources to send a larger amount home in rotation to meet big ticket items like paying off big loans like those borrowed to pay recruitment fees at high interest rates or when there were family emergencies like big health expenses.&nbsp; By the end of my nine years there in Malaysia, I was saving Rs65,000 a month. When I was ready to head home, my supervisor told me that he thought of me as an integral part of the team, and handed me an envelope with a cash token of appreciation. He told me that his company's doors were always open for me. But I never went back.&nbsp; In the last 108 months I spent in Malaysia, I was home in Nepal only for three months, and I needed to devote my time to my family.&nbsp; With my savings, I bought some property in Gorkha which has quadrupled in value, and allowed me to invest in my children's education. My daughter finished her undergraduate degree in journalism and my son, who I met for the first time when he was almost four years old, is now finishing up high school.&nbsp; A neighbour in my village had called me at work in Malaysia to inform me about the birth of my son. I spent 300 ringgit to celebrate that momentous day with my colleagues in Penang.&nbsp; After returning to Nepal, I was first a driver for politicians with high posts. But it was impossible to be a good provider at a driver's salary despite the long hours.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230607140620_6fc41ca4d470ba4c1a98a7ff6d8c03c2df6425651b77a47a679db952bf8fcfea.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20230607140620_6fc41ca4d470ba4c1a98a7ff6d8c03c2df6425651b77a47a679db952bf8fcfea" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspore Diaries 34"> </figure>  It is no wonder that Nepalis migrate overseas for work. You work hard either way, in Nepal or abroad, but you only earn a liveable wage abroad. I soon bought my own taxi and even though I work long hours, I am glad I don’t have to give away most of it to a साहु. I earn more than Rs100,000 a month, and it has been good.&nbsp; When I was working for politicians as a driver, I realised why power is so important in Nepal. My wife was almost killed when she was hit by a truck. &nbsp;The owner refused to pay, and the hospital bills racked up. It was only after a threatening call from my politician boss that the perpetrators agreed to pay the medical bills. &nbsp; Nepalis like me without power or networks are deprived of what is rightfully ours. Foreign employment can provide us with resources which can give us courage. When my wife again fell ill with cancer, it was the land and taxi that I bought with overseas earnings that gave me the collateral to borrow money to ensure she got the care she needed. My brother who is working abroad also insisted on chipping in for my wife's cancer care. Without resources, even the most willing informal networks are unable to help during times of crises.&nbsp; My wife is now cancer free. She is healthy and after ages, is back to her old self. I will use the same collateral to get the loans to send my daughter abroad for her Master's so she can make a future for herself. I take a lot of pride in the fact that a simple driver like me can now send my daughter abroad for higher studies. I cannot think of a better investment for her and our family's future. Once my children are settled, my wife and I long to go back to our village in Gorkha. I spent a few months there during the pandemic and got a glimpse of how comfortable rural life is. My customers there include elderly widows in their 80s and 90s from lahure families who have to go to the bank to receive their pension.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230607140620_3696c279e03b50c9db2534e4ba53caedca041ed69f9570842d6510a67c8d8d74.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20230607140620_3696c279e03b50c9db2534e4ba53caedca041ed69f9570842d6510a67c8d8d74" data-rendition-name="original" width="1458" height="1944" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspore Diaries 34"> </figure>  It’s a three-hour drive and they want me to stop twice en route so they can enjoy their homemade alcohol and boiled eggs that they carry from home. In the village, you know all your customers and they know you personally. The earnings might be lower, but we do not have to pay rent or buy expensive food like in Kathmandu. But most of all, at home there is peace of mind.&nbsp; My struggles began over 35 years ago when I escaped to Kathmandu with my cousin, enticed by the possibility of earning enough to be able to afford to eat rice every day.&nbsp; I now long to go back where I started, enjoy life at a slower pace after decades of hard work. &nbsp; &nbsp;Translated from a conversation with the author. Other authentic and original entries can be sent to <a href="mailto:editors@nepalitimes.com">editors@nepalitimes.com</a> with ‘Diaspora Diaries’ in the subject line.&nbsp;

Tale of a modern day lahure

This is the 30th instalment of Diaspora Diaries, a regular series in Nepali Times with stories of Nepalis living and working abroad.&nbsp; For a young man like me during the Maoist era, it seemed like those of us who were staying behind in rural Nepal only had two choices: join the Armed Police Force (APF) or the Maoist militia.&nbsp; I used to be a social worker in Tanahu, collecting data on visually impaired locals and connecting them to health camps. The job was neither easy nor financially rewarding. But it was meaningful. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/diaspora-diaries/migrant-worker-returns-to-create-work-at-home">Migrant worker returns to create work at home</a>, Sunil Bhujel However, travelling became too risky because of the conflict, and I had to stop the work. I chose to join the APF because my brother was in it. I remember feeling out of place at the barrack. I had grown up reading and writing literature, but suddenly it was not words but bullets that I learned to use. My true passion lay in pens, not pistols. Death felt even closer when 82 APF personnel were killed in Shamsherganj in Banke, the same place where my elder brother was stationed. This terrified my mother who would tearfully insist that we quit the police. I had just completed my training and was not enjoying this new stint. My brother, however, was too attached to the job and could not quit despite the danger. He did advise me to resign so our mother would not worry. I joined an undergraduate course, but as family responsibilities took over I decided to travel to the UAE for work as a security guard. It would be my home for the next 12 years. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/diaspora-diaries/the-return-of-a-master-baker">The return of a master baker</a>, Raju Pakhrin  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023043011040_1f6abac0cf5ecca7a3746895ed03f7ee736a3baa1904218d74ba6164a32b60c1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2023043011040_1f6abac0cf5ecca7a3746895ed03f7ee736a3baa1904218d74ba6164a32b60c1" data-rendition-name="original" width="2250" height="1688" loading="lazy" alt="DD 30"> </figure>  It was a higher salary that brought me to the UAE. But soon enough, I realised it offered a lot more than just economic stability. As I often tell my friends, if you have gone to the UAE, you have travelled the world because you meet people there from all over. I remember exchanging a few words with a New Zealander who had paid AED21,000 ($520) for a ticket at a VIP booth at a Formula 1 race where I was stationed as a guard. I was shocked at the ticket rate, but was pleased with myself that I was getting paid to watch the same race while at work.&nbsp; I have been stationed at other high-profile places: guarding Burj Khalifa, the world's tallest building, which I had previously only read about. During New Year, I got to see great extravaganzas while on guard duty. I was focused on crowd management and ensuring people were safe, of course, but I also got to witness many historic events. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/for-better-or-verse-in-the-gulf">For better or verse in the Gulf</a>, Dalbir Singh Baraili These are neither desires nor expectations that people from simple backgrounds like me have. I was there just to earn, but I also got to learn. I gained exposure to what the world has to offer, even though I was just a poor guy in a guard uniform. I now know that no matter what corner of the world you throw me in, I will adjust and make a decent life for myself. But I also know not everyone is as lucky in the Gulf. I landed a good employer and made up to $900 every month as my security company got contracts with the best employers. But others in my position have it much more difficult. My biggest fear was losing the job that I had, and this kept me on my toes at all times. Neither my family nor I could afford to lose the job and salary, and at my company, even a small mistake could be costly. I had bought shares in a transportation company back in Nepal. My research showed that it was a promising firm that was going to break the syndicate in the country. After leaving the UAE, I joined the company as an operations manager but soon realised the job was not for me. I was used to order, rules and working within a system, but in Kathmandu, I found it difficult to adjust to the chaos. So I quit and sold my shares for a loss from my hard earned savings. It was literally down to my पसिनाको पैसा (savings from my sweat). Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/diaspora-diaries/adventures-of-a-nepali-coffee-aficionado">Adventures of a Nepali coffee aficionado</a>, Laxmi Prasad Timilsina  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023043011040_98e807ba422eae80da53a7580dec869ddf1861913175c79cab3572d6ff516ade.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="2023043011040_98e807ba422eae80da53a7580dec869ddf1861913175c79cab3572d6ff516ade" data-rendition-name="original" width="2126" height="1522" loading="lazy" alt="DD 30"> </figure>  Back home in Chitwan, I could not stay idle for long, and I could not bear the thought of going overseas for work again either. After 12 years away, I treasured the time with my family. A little bit of research taught me that there is potential in cleaning products so I took two short-term training sessions on how to make them.&nbsp; I started a small production and supply outfit in Chitwan. YouTube is also a good place to learn for someone like me without a good background in business. For a new company that started after Covid-19, we are doing pretty well financially, selling cleaning products for toilets, marble and glass, as well as hand liquid soap. We have 21 clients including hostels, hotels and resorts and often struggle to keep up with the rising demand. &nbsp;&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/diaspora-diaries/adventures-of-a-nepali-coffee-aficionado">Adventures of a Nepali coffee aficionado</a>, Laxmi Prasad Timilsina I have plans to expand my company. It would be good if the government provided some support to us returnees, especially business grants or soft loans, keen on doing something in Nepal itself.&nbsp; We contributed so much to our economy during our years abroad, working silently in the desert heat, away from family and sending home money every month for over a decade. But we arrive here, and even though it is home, spend years struggling to find a footing in an environment that feels entirely new after many years away. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/baking-as-a-metaphor-for-life/">Baking as a metaphor for life</a>, Aliza Basnet Translated from an interview with the author. Diaspora Diaries is a regular column in Nepali Times providing a platform for Nepalis to share their experiences of living, working, studying abroad. Authentic and original entries can be sent to editors@nepalitimes.com with 'Diaspora Diaries' in the subject line.

“I went to earn and learn”

<img width="1600" height="1200" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150240/63fe12a29c7e80680e0da532jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>This is the 223d instalment of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-1/">Diaspora Diaries</a>, a regular series in Nepali Times with stories of Nepalis living and working abroad. For almost a dozen years, I have been working as a farmer in a majra, deep in the desert of Saudi Arabia.Despite spending so much time here, I have not really seen much of the country. The only time I leave this wadi (called majra) is when I go to Nepal every two years for a few months. The airport is quite a distance from here, and all along during the long ride I have my eyes glued to the countryside from my taxi window.I grow vegetables in the farm along this dry river bed, so I get to see a lot more greenery than others do in Saudi Arabia. We grow khajoor (dates), tomato, cauliflower, millet and livestock fodder while tending to over 350 goats. Work is busy and can get exhausting with the heat especially during summer months.  A lot has changed over the years, even though I have worked in the same majra under the same kafeel sponsor the whole time. A Nepali colleague who worked in this majra for 18 years went back recently. He came here when he could call home on a landline with much difficulty once every two weeks or so.But I arrived here during the Nokia phone days. We used to watch Hindi shows on a small tv back then. Things are better now with smartphones and social media. Killing the empty hours overseas alone between vacations is much easier with YouTube and Facebook. Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/prisoners-of-the-green-passport/"> Prisoners of the Green Passport</a>, Mahendra Thulung RaiBut I do not know much what has changed in Saudi Arabia beyond the boundaries of my farm, since the wadi is an isolated world, disconnected from the rest of the country. The day I finally decide to leave Saudi, I think I will still not have seen much of the country.I have worked with the same mudir (boss) for almost a dozen years, but I would not say I have stuck it out because he is a good boss. It is because there is no certainty that the next one will be any better, or even much worse.Familiarity with him and his expectations is helpful, he does not delay my salary and pays for my roundtrip ticket to Kathmandu every two years. Even then, I do not feel any particular affinity towards him. He is a source of money for me, just as I am a source of labour for him. The day either of us stop providing this value to each other is the day our transactional relationship ends.By Saudi standards, I do not believe my mudir is a very rich man. Of course the number of workers he employs in his house or majra including domestic help, driver and farmers is equal to the size of his entire family. But after hearing about the lifestyle of other mudir of fellow Nepalis, he seems less extravagant and opulent. He has never left the country even once since I have known him, unlike other Saudis who go abroad for business or holiday. It does not seem like he has any other engagement beyond this small majra.But even then, the Saudi hukumat (government) provides well for its citizens. We Nepalis are unlucky. Neither our own government not the governments of the countries we are employed in look after us.The Nepali in the majra has left, and I now have fellow workers from Sudan. We speak in Arabic which I am now fluent in. I used to maintain a notebook with basics like numbers that I noted with the help of colleagues. Other than that, necessity also pressured me to learn.I had to know how to communicate with my mudir to ask him for basic supplies like food items or toiletries as the closest shops were quite a distance away and I was not mobile. I also tried to be extra attentive when he gave me instructions in Arabic at work, some of which I used to note and memorise. Somehow I learnt to manage.Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/for-better-or-verse-in-the-gulf/"> For better or verse in the Gulf</a>, Dalbir Singh Baraili <img width="295" height="291" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150240/63fe12a69c7e80680e0da533jpeg.jpg" alt="">Other than Arabic, I have not learnt anything significant after coming here. Sure, I now know how to drive a tractor or fix a broken leg of an injured goat, but I do not feel I have achieved much. There is not much innovation in the agriculture work I do here. With my limited educational background and training, there are not many professional opportunities available for people like me. But then again, if everyone becomes a doctor or engineer, who will grow your vegetables and ensure there is food to eat? Even so, it is difficult to survive as a farmer.Over the last decade, I managed to buy land and build a house back home. I send my children to good schools in Nepal. Whether I like it or not here, I must stick around in Saudi Arabia for my children’s education. After all, are not Nepalis overseas also all making these sacrifices for their children’s secure future?All things considered, I earn Rs40-50,000 a month depending on tips, with food and lodging covered by my mudir. This provides an important cushion to my family. I had to work for a dozen years with the same mudir to be where I am today. If I had the guarantee of earning even Rs30,000 rupees back home, I would stay back in Nepal with my family.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/cut-from-a-different-cloth/">Cut from a different cloth</a>Even if we can manage to earn Rs1,000 a day as a labourer in Nepal, it will not be enough if the work is not consistent throughout the month. Here, I get a lump sum every month even as a farmer and do not have to worry about getting work the next day or about my accommodation and food. Why would I or anyone in my position live in this monotony, far from my family, if I did not have to?There are other majra in the neighborhood I live in with many migrant workers from Asia and Africa who also did not see much hope for themselves in their home countries. I do not think any of us are particularly happy to be here in the desert, but none of us have better alternatives. I know of three Nepalis who live in my area and work in neighbouring majra. We meet every few days to chat and have dinner. It gives me a sense of belonging and a break from this monotony.Just like the Saudi Arabia outside the farm is unfamiliar to me, during my visits home Kathmandu also feels very foreign. I pass through it every two years and do not linger there much. When I come home for my vacation, I am in a rush to go back to my village to my family in Nawalparasi.When it is time to return to Saudi Arabia, I try to spend as much time with my family in my village as I can before saying goodbye. Even when there is time to see Kathmandu before my flight, I do not really feel like it because I am weighed down with the heaviness of leaving home and family.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/speaking-the-language-of-overseas-work/">Speaking the language of overseas work</a>Translated from a conversation with the author. Diaspora Diaries is a regular column in Nepali Times providing a platform for Nepalis to share their experiences of living, working, studying abroad. Authentic and original entries can be sent to editors@nepalitimes.com with ‘Diaspora Diaries’ in the subject line.

Turning the desert green

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111414110/63723c339c7e80680e0c9605jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2304" height="1536"/><figcaption>Nearly three years after the outbreak of Covid-19, every day life is mostly back to normal. Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption></figure>For the first time since it was first detected almost three years ago and ravaged Nepal, the SARS-CoV-2 virus has been overtaken by another public health emergency: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/as-covid-abates-nepal-sees-dengue-outbreak/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the dengue epidemic</a>.Covid-19 is not gone (even President Bidya Devi Bhandari just had it), and new strains are co-mingling with various serotypes of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/dengue-days-are-here-to-stay/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">dengue that have officially claimed 39 lives</a> and infected over 30,000 people across Nepal this monsoon. But like the numbers for Covid-19, those are gross under-estimations.As we speak, a new Omicron sub-variant BF.7 which is better equipped to escape antibodies from earlier infections or vaccinations has already spread from the United States to China. Masks, bivalent boosters and avoiding crowds are the most effective prevention methods which only a few follow.Yale University researchers have found <a href="https://www.nber.org/papers/w30512" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">considerable growth in excess deaths</a> (total deaths in a population in a given period which is above what is normally expected) among anti-vaxers in Ohio and Florida.In fact, the fatality rate seems to have a direct correlation with political belief. The paper published by the National Bureau of Economic Research this month showed that excess death rates for American republicans increased from nearly 0% pre-pandemic to 35% by end-2021. The increase for Democrats was only 10%.Similarly, <a href="https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jamainternalmedicine/fullarticle/2796235#:~:text=Conclusions%20and%20Relevance%20In%20this,had%20received%20a%20booster%20dose." target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">another study</a> published in The Journal of the American Medical Association last month revealed that Covid hospitalisations in 13 US states was 10.5 times higher among the unvaccinated and 2.5 times higher in vaccinated persons with no booster shots.Closer home, Hong Kong saw a disproportionate number of Omicron deaths earlier this year among the unvaccinated elderly. While highly transmissible, the strain was much less fatal among the vaccinated elsewhere.Even in Nepal, which has a full vaccination rate close to 80%, one of the highest in the world, those still being hospitalised with Covid were mostly unvaccinated.“I recently had a girl patient who had lost her parents and a brother to Covid who had not been vaccinated,” recalls Sher Bahadur Pun, a virologist at Teku Hospital in Kathmandu. “There have been one too many unvaccinated patients in my ICU who believed rumours on social media.”In Nepal, as elsewhere, the early days of the pandemic were marked by <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/the-social-media-contagion/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">rampant misinformation</a>, first about the novel coronavirus itself, stigmatisation of patients and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-health-workers-battle-covid-19-but-also-stigma/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">healthcare providers</a> alike. The general public was slow to adopt safety protocols, which contributed to over 1 million cases and 12,000 deaths in Nepal. Worldwide, there have been over 630 million cases and at least 6.5 million deaths from Covid so far.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111414110/63723c369c7e80680e0c9606jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="914" height="396"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111414110/63723c389c7e80680e0c9607jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="892" height="499"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The pandemic did reinforce hand washing, hygiene and mask-wearing in Nepal, which in turn also <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/silver-linings-in-the-covid-cloud/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">helped reduce incidences</a> of tuberculosis, typhoid, flu and other infectious diseases.But the biggest disruption was caused by repeated lockdowns which led to an <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/economic-cost-of-5-months-of-nepal-lockdown/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">economic crisis</a> in Nepal, lately worsened by the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/ukraine-crisis-hits-nepal-economy-hard/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Russian invasion of Ukraine</a>. All this has slowed improvements in nutrition levels as well as <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/lockdown-fallout/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">maternal and infant health</a>.During the pandemic, Nepal had an early warning of what was to come just by following trends in neighbouring India (see book review, below). But lack of adequate preparation at the border meant ineffective quarantine and testing, and a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/returnees-may-be-taking-coronavirus-to-rural-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">rapid spread of the virus to the remotest corners</a> of the country. As hospitals in India ran out of beds and oxygen, so did Nepal.The second wave in 2021 saw India register the highest daily Covid-19 deaths, but the death rate proportional to population was probably higher in Nepal. Better-equipped hospitals with trained staff and adequate <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/helping-nepalis-breathe-again/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">oxygen and ICU facilities</a> across the country would have saved many of those lives.“Countries like Nepal will have to prepare for not just new emerging diseases but also re-emerging and existing infections. And the only way to do that is by strengthening our health system,” adds Pun “We must start training our medical personnel and upgrade health infrastructure. That is the biggest takeaway from the pandemic.”Nepal was one of the first countries to volunteer for Oxford University’s <a href="https://www.recoverytrial.net" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Recovery Trial</a> which studied the efficacy of various drugs, yet there is rampant over-prescription and over-the-counter availability of antibiotics.“We are still using antibiotics like Azithromycin to treat viral infections such as Covid and dengue which is adding to the problem of antimicrobial resistance,” says Buddha Basnyat, a physician at the Patan Academy of Health Sciences.At Teku Hospital, many of virologist Sher Bahadur Pun’s patients are also testing negative for dengue and suspects the mosquitoes that bit them could have been carrying another virus like Zika or Chikungunya which have been detected in India. "The symptoms are very similar and transmitted by the same mosquito," he adds.Covid-19 is <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-nature-of-pandemics/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">just one of many pandemics</a>. But it won’t be the last. As humans interact with a deteriorating natural habitat and wildlife, they are exposed to zoonotic diseases — viruses that can jump from animals to humans. The growth in instantaneous international travel means infections can spread rapidly across the world.At the peak of the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-real-cost-of-nepals-second-wave/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">second wave with the Delta strain</a> more than 250 Nepalis were dying every day, but governments in Kathmandu and the provinces were preoccupied with a nasty power struggle. <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/playing-politics-in-a-pandemic/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Political infighting delayed response</a>, and led to many more unnecessary deaths.As Nepal and India prepare to mark the third year of the Covid-19 outbreak, the worst seems to be over. It took a global crisis and millions of deaths to remind us to be prepared for the next pandemic.Says Buddha Basnyat: “We now have to make the best use of our capacity and build on it. Let’s not be complacent, there are many other infections that afflict this part of the world.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111414110/63723c3a9c7e80680e0c9608jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1050" height="626"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Pandemic unmasked the real disease: governance failureOn 24 March 2020, the Narendra Modi government in India imposed the first lockdown with just four hours of warning. WHO praised this ‘timely and tough action’ to stop Covid, and the University of Oxford at the time called it the strictest lockdown in the world. With China’s zero-Covid policy that is probably not true anymore.Still, India’s sudden lockdown unleashed the greatest movement of people in the Subcontinent after the 1947 Partition, which had a cascading effect on Nepal.‘For a country with zero social security, which did not even have an authentic count of the number of people left without an income due to the lockdown, and where fractiousness and social fault lines make the poor and the backward easy preys of the systematic corruption, a measure like this would need weeks of planning. Even then it could still go wrong. So the repercussions of such a move without any preparation were unimaginable.’In her book Billions Under LockdownIndian journalist Abantika Ghosh chronicles the impact of lockdowns on her country. In a smaller scale, the upheavals caused by the lockdowns impacted Nepali migrant workers in India and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/indians-stuck-in-nepal-also-trying-to-get-home/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Indians in Nepal who had to undertake arduous treks home</a>.In her book, Ghosh tells the story of 38-year-old Ranveer trying to make the 400km journey on foot from Delhi to his village in Madhya Pradesh. He died along the way, 100m short of reaching his destination. Nepali migrant workers, prevented from entering their own country at the border, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepalis-still-stuck-in-no-mans-land/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">swam across the Mahakali River in Darchula</a>. Some drowned.Once quarantined, often without proper testing and contact tracing, Covid refugees were housed in <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-quarantines-hotspots-for-disease/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">crowded shelters</a> which themselves became super-spreaders for the virus. The outbreak snowballed as migrants took the virus home to families, leading to community transmission.As hospitals were overwhelmed with cases, several treatment therapies were introduced. From a combination of HIV drugs and convalescent plasma therapy to malaria drug <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/the-truth-about-the-chloroquine-scam/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">hydroxychloroquine</a>, a typhoid antibiotic Azithromycin and Remdesivir, all of which were later proven to be ineffective, and sometimes even harmful. What saved lives was the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/pandemic-and-the-political-economy-of-oxygen-supply/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">timely supply of oxygen</a>, and the cheap steroid Dexamethasone.Ghosh writes about India: ‘The biggest lesson of all was how politics became the most insurmountable impediment in the control of the disease.’ Ditto for Nepal.The pandemic unmasked the real disease: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepal-is-a-hotbed-of-virus-and-politics/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">state neglect, corruption, governance failure</a> leading to ad-hoc restrictions, lack of testing and surveillance, an overwhelmed health system that left hundreds of millions of hapless citizens to fend for themselves.It also showed what worked: empowered local health institutions which responded quickly with testing, tracing and quarantining. No surprise that the Indian state with the lowest Covid fatality rate despite high exposure was <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/how-did-kerala-beat-covid-19-spread/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Kerala</a>.Abantika Ghosh’s lessons learnt could just as well be written for Nepal: ‘A matured health system is also decentralized, transparent, and, on occasion, self-sustaining … If you don’t treat diseases early, you only treat them when they are complex, and because complex interventions are more expensive, you do not have the resources left to bolster primary care. The more hospitals you build without investments in primary care, the more hospitals you will need to build.’Sonia AwaleBillions Under Lockdown: The Inside Story of India's Fight Against Covid-19 By Abantika Ghosh2021 Bloomsbury IRS699393 pages<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111414110/63723c3c9c7e80680e0c9609jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="695" height="1080">

Sonia Awale

Three years of living dangerously

<figure><img width="1618" height="1000" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131156/63723b939c7e80680e0c95cfjpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption></figcaption></figure>This is the 16th instalment of Diaspora Diaries, a regular series in Nepali Times with stories of Nepalis living and working abroad.  I grew up in Dang, where they used to call me an awara as I was not doing anything productive. No one wanted to invest in my future. But one day my aunt offered to help me secure loans so I could <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-2/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-2/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1665030592020000&amp;usg=AOvVaw1skz1K2PgE7zbhkrpS9BMB">migrate overseas</a> for work. Even getting a passport felt like such a hassle back then, as I had to come to Kathmandu.  Within three months of applying through an agent in 2009, I got my visa for Saudi Arabia to work as a drive<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-3/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">r</a>. After paying Rs90,000 borrowed at 36% interest, this village awara finally got on a plane to Saudi Arabia.  My salary was supposed to be 1,500 riyal ($400) as per the contract, but I was paid only 1,300. I was supposed to work as a driver,  but they sometimes made me wash dishes, sweep the floor or do other odd jobs. One year just passed like that. When things did not improve for the better, me and five other Nepalis who were also promised better paying driving jobs decided to speak up for our rights. But the mid-level staff would not listen to us. It was not about washing dishes or mopping floors being less dignified than driving, this was simply not what we had signed up for. I wrote letters to the owner of the company with just two requests: to let me work as a driver, or send me home.  <img width="640" height="666" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131156/63723b969c7e80680e0c95d0jpeg.jpg" alt="">But the mid-level staff made sure that the letters did not reach the owner of the company. It was a futile exercise. As time passed, I learnt more about the owner. One day I saw him in his car and ran towards it to express my grievances. I knew the owner had a soft spot for Nepalis, and he listened to me intently. By this time, I had already learnt Arabic so was able to communicate well. The five other Nepalis with me also spoke up. He was kind and assured us that our concerns would be addressed once he was back from his work trip to America.  Our mid-level supervisors did not take it well that we had bypassed them, and gone directly to the boss. They started torturing us mentally, and stopped paying even the salary that was lower than the contracted amount. They were rude to us, and made us miserable. But as I said, I am the type that will fight for my rights. There was no other way to stop the mistreatment, so one morning at 4AM, the five other Nepalis and I locked all the gates of our company, trapping workers inside. The supervisors called the police, and we were detained. It was only after a few weeks that the owner came, and set us free. He listened to our concerns, and fired the supervisors. It turns out they were ripping him off, and also cheating us by taking a cut from our salaries. The supervisors were also expats, some with families in Saudi Arabia. Their visas were canceled, and they were sent home. The owner was on our side, and the reason he had a soft corner for Nepalis was that previous workers from Nepal had helped his company’s business take off and expand internationally. We finally felt listened to. Our salaries were restored to the contracted amount, and we finally got our driving licenses. As a full time heavy truck driver, I felt happy. Things are going to be better now. For the next few years, I worked hard at the company, driving my food truck regularly <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-3/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-3/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1665030592020000&amp;usg=AOvVaw0lyngXt9uvrL4sshpLm5_X">to Qatar and UAE</a>. We got an extra bonus of 300 riyal after each trip. My truck had a small rest room with a small kitchen. These were long drives, up to 4,000km roundtrip and could take days. It would get boring on the long highway, and we Nepali drivers would talk to each other on group calls. It was a way to pass the time, and also keep ourselves awake. When not chatting with other Nepali drivers, I would have the music on.There were other allowances for heavy truck drivers, my monthly salary was raised, and my savings were adding up. My dream of buying land and building a house in Nepal was getting closer with every kilometre I drove. For a simple man like me, it was all I could ever ask for. I worked everyday, saved every penny. <figure><img width="960" height="730" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131156/63723b999c7e80680e0c95d1jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>This is me in Saudi Arabia. (Face blurred at request of author.) </figcaption></figure>Life was good. Until everything changed.My sister in Nepal, whom I had been taking care of, gave birth to a daughter. There was a complication, and the baby had to be put into intensive care soon after. I took care of their medical bills, but while the baby recovered, my sister’s health deteriorated. She was only skin and bones and could not even hold the baby. The doctors in Nepal couldn’t figure out what was wrong.I stuck around in Saudi Arabia for another year, and kept sending money to pay for my sister’s medical bills. During the long drives, I used to talk to my family about her health and could not hold back my tears. After a year, in 2018 I could not bear it any longer and returned to Nepal even though my company asked me to stay on. I took my sister from Teaching Hospital to Bir Hospital to hospitals in India for treatment. She was hospitalised for over a year and the medical bills kept adding up — one expensive test after another. All my savings from years of work in Saudi Arabia were used up.Her husband, a teacher at a school with a modest salary, could not afford her medical bills. He is a doting husband, and was distraught by her condition. I had to step in to help, there was no one else.This disproportionate responsibility of paying for my sister did not weigh on me that much. I had always looked after my little sister ever since we were children. My brother-in-law was also doing as much as he could.Eventually, my sister recovered, and although she is in much better health now she does have occasional relapses. She is still fragile. But most importantly, she is alive. She is with us. I am sure we would have lost her, had I not been in Saudi Arabia, earning so I could pay for her medical treatment. What more could a brother ask for? She tells me I saved her life. It is true.I am now a driver in a car rental company in Nepal, and earn just about enough to survive. I am still poor, and do not have any property in my name. The other five drivers with whom I was in Saudi Arabia are also all back in Nepal, and have invested their savings in transport and agriculture businesses. All my savings were gone, but I have no regrets. There is no remorse, because what could be more precious than my sister's life? I am now trying to <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/migration-not-a-wish-but-necessity-for-nepalis/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/migration-not-a-wish-but-necessity-for-nepalis/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1665030592020000&amp;usg=AOvVaw3rEOFtKsFJRrShc6QmTvh1">go overseas again</a> to recoup my savings. I am still relatively young, and have another few years in me to work hard once more in the desert heat. It is the only way to  break out of the poverty that has trapped me. Translated from a conversation with the author, who requested anonymity. <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-3/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-3/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1665030592020000&amp;usg=AOvVaw0lyngXt9uvrL4sshpLm5_X">Diaspora Diaries</a> is a regular column in Nepali Times providing a platform for Nepalis to share their experiences of living, working, studying abroad. Authentic and original entries can be sent to <a href="mailto:editors@nepalitimes.com" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">editors@nepalitimes.com</a> with Diaspora Diaries in the subject line.

Saving to save my sister

Good housekeeping

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101120/637208829c7e80680e0b54edjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1656" height="1142"/><figcaption>Hom Nath Giri at his desk in a company in Kuwait City. PHOTO: Hom Nath Giri</figcaption></figure>I am not sure where to start telling you the story of the journey of my life.I come from a very simple family. My father’s job as a court messenger was to deliver legal letters and messages. His salary was not enough to support our family, so in 1994 he went to Saudi Arabia where he found a job as a gardener, working outdoor in the desert heat.We communicated in letters and if we did not hear from him for over two months, my mother would start crying. The letters my siblings and I wrote to him were formal, in a style they taught us in school. They all started with ‘Sri Pujaniya Baba, Shastang Dandawat’ (Respected father, I bow to you).In all his letters over the years, my father reminded us to do well in school. One of them said:“If I had studied, I would not have had to work here as a gardener. Even in Saudi Arabia, I would have got a much better job. I would have had opportunities for promotion. But there are no promotions for gardeners like me. This is why it is important that you study. I am working here to enable you to study hard.”When my father turned 50, I decided it was time to bring him back from Saudi Arabia. He had worked very hard for ten years, and it was my turn to step up.My father came back, passed on the foreign employment baton to me. In 2004, I left for Kuwait to work as a security guard. The heat was oppressive and the work was not easy. Over a dozen of my colleagues went back to Nepal one by one, either because they were caught sleeping during duty hours and got laid off, or because they just could not bear the heat.I stayed on, determined to keep working no matter how difficult it got. I was promoted many times in the past 17 years from Shift Supervisor to Patrolling Supervisor to Operation Supervisor. Then I became the Assistant Operation Manager, Operation Manager and I am now the Assistant Managing Director.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101120/637208859c7e80680e0b54eejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1870" height="1226"><figcaption>Giri with his father and mother when they visited him in Kuwait in 2018. His father toiled as a gardener in Saudi Arabia to support his family, he died a year after this picture was taken.</figcaption></figure>I grew up delivering newspapers around Pokhara starting at 3AM on a rusty, donated bike for Rs1,000 Rupees a month. I used to be  drenched in sweat and dizzy during my 12 hour shifts as a security guard when I first arrived in Kuwait.The odds were stacked against me. I would have laughed if someone had told me I would have the position I am holding today. But it wasn’t my education that helped me rise up the ranks. Little things like my English skills, integrity and work ethics did.Foreign employment worked for me. It gave me a platform. When we aspire to go overseas, we go after manpower agents. We plead with them to connect us with jobs, we call or message them desperately. But the minute we get on the plane, we start scolding them.If I met the manpower company owner who sent me to Kuwait, I would actually thank him. My success has meant that I have been able to lift my family back in Nepal out of poverty.I have brought my brother-in-law and his son also to Kuwait for jobs. I have connected people from my village to well-paying work here. My financial strength has spillover effects on those associated with me.Read also: <a style="font-size: medium; font-weight: 600; letter-spacing: normal; background-color: #ffffff;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/in-the-minds-of-nepals-migrant-workers/">In the mind of Nepali migrant workers</a>, Upasana KhadkaWas it the Nepal government that helped me? No. It was the recruitment agency that gave me this opportunity. They get all the blame, but never the credit for success stories like mine.Of course, they deserve to be punished when they cheat workers, especially when they promise the wrong job or pay. But it is also true that they have done more for many than what the government ever did.My father’s experience in Saudi Arabia ensured that our family had enough to eat and our basic needs were met, even though we had no savings. My Kuwait experience elevated my family even more. All because of foreign employment.Luck was on my side, I realise that. There are many like me who have done well. But I must say that a large majority of Nepalis come here and leave without making much progress in their salaries or positions.Hard work is key. So is having a vision and proper planning so you have specific goals to strive towards. Many of us do not get that kind of guidance so we do not know how to make use of available opportunities.Soft skills like computers and English proficiency are critical to make use of available opportunities of which there are plenty but not well exploited by Nepalis. How do we inculcate that drive to keep learning and bettering ourselves so we are given opportunities to rise?Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/the-year-of-migrant-workers/">The year of migrant workers</a>, EditorialI started as a security guard but I relied on people around me to help me learn how to use a computer. I still remember shouting with joy when I typed a paragraph in a Word document and my colleague got it printed.I have started getting comfortable with this lifestyle. After being stuck in Nepal for 8 months during the Covid-19 pandemic, I have changed my mind about returning anytime soon. I explored opportunities in the hotel and restaurant line back home but was unable to muster the courage to make an investment and start something on my own.For me, foreign employment is a secure option. I have seen many friends who returned to Nepal for good, used up all their savings in some unsuccessful venture and came right back to Kuwait. After so many years away, we do not have the network, contextual knowledge or the ability to deal with the corruption that defines every aspect of life in Nepal. The idea that honest work can help us succeed in Nepal feels a bit far-fetched at the moment.Of course you miss the little things like taking your children to school or playing with them. But having experienced both being the son of a migrant as well as a migrant father,  I can say the situation is much better now for transnational parenting.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101120/637208889c7e80680e0b54efjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1772" height="1280"><figcaption>Giri with his son when his family visited him before the pandemic. PHOTO: HOM NATH GIRI</figcaption></figure>When I was a boy, the postman used to come every Thursday as we waited for our father’s letters. Sometimes the letters would be stuck somewhere and we would receive all six on the same day after six months of radio silence and panic. Now I see my children every few months in person and talk to them every day.Despite being away from Nepal, I feel like I can contribute more from here than if I were back home. Whether during earthquake or Covid-19, we have sent a lot of support to Nepal including oxygen cylinders.There are many Nepalis who require help in the Gulf region, and I find myself spending a good chunk of my salary and time every month helping them. I am lucky that I can do that. I often get sentimental when I go back to my apartment after dealing with people who need help. I write poetry to get the weight off my chest.What was most distressing was having to walk out of Kathmandu airport once behind men who were pushing two coffins in luggage trolleys. The bodies had been repatriated in the same flight as mine. Later, I composed these lines:घर गाउँमा रुवाबासि पिर पठाएछ,सम्झनालाई अन्तिम चिनो तस्विर पठाएछ॥खुशि बोकी घर फिर्छु भन्थ्यो परदेशीले,कठै! आज बाकसभित्र शरिर पठाएछ॥He said he would come home and bring joy,But he brought back tears and grief.He sent a photograph as a parting gift.Alas! He sent his own body home in a box.That, too, is foreign employment.One of my favourite memories is when I brought my father to Kuwait in 2018. He came to my office and sat with pride behind my desk. He told me all those years of toil in Saudi Arabia had been well worth it.What I have achieved in my life is in large part due to the motivating letters our father wrote to us from Saudi Arabia. He sacrificed his life for us. We lost him last year, and I miss him every day.Translated from a conversation with Hom Nath Giri in Kuwait. Diaspora Diaries is a regular column in Nepali Times providing a platform for Nepalis to share their experiences of living, working, studying abroad. Authentic and original entries can be sent to <a href="mailto:editors@nepalitimes.com" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">editors@nepalitimes.com</a> with Diaspora Diaries in the subject line.  Read more:<a style="font-size: medium; letter-spacing: normal; background-color: #ffffff; font-weight: 600;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/diaspora-diaries-1/">Diaspora Diaries 1</a>, Nepali Times<a style="font-size: medium; letter-spacing: normal; background-color: #ffffff; font-weight: 600;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/the-days-of-international-migration/">The Days of International Migration</a>, Editorial

Diaspora Diaries  2

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111410114/6372051a9c7e80680e0b289ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1883" height="1194"/><figcaption>Photo: PATTABI RAMAN</figcaption></figure>In this new fortnightly column, Diaspora Diaries, Nepali Times provides a platform for Nepalis to share their experiences of living, working, studying abroad. Authentic and original entries can be sent to <a href="mailto:editors@nepalitimes.com" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">editors@nepalitimes.com</a> with Diaspora Diaries in the subject line. It has not even been three months since I said my goodbyes to my family, but I am already back in Nepal from <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/human-rights-referees-blow-whistle-on-world-cup-fouls/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Qatar</a>.I was promised a job in housekeeping in a five star hotel, but ended up in a construction site where they wanted me to carry around heavy stuff all day. I paid over Rs100,000 for this job, including with loans and selling my sisters’ jewelry. But it was not what I signed up for.Even then, I had no choice but to accept my fate. But after a month of physical labour, I fell ill and realised I was not cut out for this work. My company never once asked about my <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/in-the-minds-of-nepals-migrant-workers/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">health</a> while I was in hospital, or recovering in my room.I wanted to come home, but my employer was unwilling to let me go, and ultimately I had to escape without letting them know. Employers have been known to file cases falsely accusing people like me of stealing so workers cannot leave the country.I only made it out because I had the support of some helpful Nepali brothers in <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/the-days-of-international-migration/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Qatar</a>. Not the embassy. Not the employer. Not the recruiter. Just some Nepalis with big hearts.They were generous with their advice about what to do, and provided me with taxi fare.  They pitched in for my ticket. They called me to remind me to keep my spirits high. Even now, in Kathmandu, my stay at this hotel has been financed by a fellow Nepali in Qatar.In a foreign land, just being Nepali bonds people together and people go out of their way to help strangers — it is an inexplicable kind of brotherhood that I will never be able to forget, or repay.Despite my bad luck, I have been lucky in many other ways. I am young, I sought help and help came spontaneously from many people. But I know it for a fact that there are many like me who have it even worse, are <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepali-migration-in-the-2020s/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">suffering silently, and struggling</a>.It is not bad for everyone. I know other Nepalis who have been in Qatar for years, and are happy with their jobs. It is like a lottery, and I was dealt a bad hand this time. The company I was posted in happened to be the worst of the lot.I have been lucky previously. I worked in <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/disproportionate-number-of-deaths-of-Nepali-workers-in-Malaysia,2812" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Malaysia</a> in a hotel for three years starting 2011, and earned $480 a month, which at the time was a huge amount for me. After returning, I worked in a hotel in Nepal. But I needed to earn more, and that would only happen if I found a job overseas again. I chose the Gulf this time, but was unlucky.As I sat in my room alone in Qatar when I was recovering and my roommates were at work, I used to reflect on many things, as I had so much time in my hand. You leave home for a few extra thousand rupees to a foreign land, but what all do you lose in the process?<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111410114/6372051d9c7e80680e0b289bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="459">My work in Qatar required me to get up at 4AM for the bus that came to pick us up. We packed food that we cooked the previous night, but sometimes it went bad because there was no fridge at the construction site. You also cannot eat when you feel hungry, you can only eat when you are told to eat.I even had to ask my supervisor to go to the toilet at the construction site. Our work would end at around 6PM, but by the time we reached our camp, it would be 8PM. We would then have to cook dinner and our meal for the next day. By the time we were done and ready to wind down, it would be past midnight only to wake up at four the next day.It went on and on like this. We were moved three times in the short period I was there. You don’t have a say in any of this, you just do as told to do as they say.I remember looking at fancy buildings in the past and wishing I could work in those. But it took me a terrible overseas experience in Qatar to realize that it is the people inside those buildings that matter. A Nepali in what they call a wakala (small shop) was much happier than me.When I was recovering alone in my room desperate to come home, I told myself I would never consider migrating overseas again. That I would do something in Nepal itself. I cannot explain the rush I felt when I finally held my boarding card in my hand at Doha airport. It was a well-planned escape that could have gone terribly wrong.But reality hit soon after I came to Nepal. <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/workers-return-to-jobless-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Where are the jobs?</a> What will I do here? What will I earn? I have to feed my family, and have loans to repay. You make a lot of sacrifices for a job abroad — even your dignity at times. But we also need those jobs.I am sharing my story so others can learn about my experience. I prefer to remain anonymous. Besides my wife, no one in my family knows about what I faced abroad. I was in so much pain and stress, what is the point getting my ailing mother all worried?I am beginning a battle with my <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/a-few-good-agents/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">recruiter</a> to get back my money, and he has shown some willingness to cooperate. I might eventually have to go back overseas one day, and coming public with my story may hurt my chances since I will be viewed as a ‘troublemaker’.A fellow Nepali in Qatar who had not been paid for months was transferred and accused of being a ‘ring leader’ among camp workers — just because he asked the manager for overdue food allowance.That is our reality. They want the quiet ones. The ones who can be silenced.Translated from a conversation in Nepali.

Diaspora Diaries 1

Rohit is from Bihar and drives an auto rickshaw in Mumbai. Life has been a struggle ever since he lost his parents in a car crash. Like many young men from Bihar in this big city, he migrated here to make a living.Then came the pandemic in 2020, and the lockdown meant that Rohit had no income at all. He and his family had to rely on the municpality’s two free meals a day.   “Mumbai belongs to the rich, except during elections,” says the 23-year-old as he negotiates the city’s dreary traffic, recalling how his wife and young son were evicted from their room for unpaid rent.But one day a miracle happened. A Nepali caregiver named Manjeela, whom Rohit knew, came to the rescue and along with her two daughters offering his family shelter and food for a few weeks.Rohit says he and his wife struggled to comprehend Manjeela’s generosity. Why was she going out of her way to help a poor family when their own family in Bihar had refused to help them?“I am so used to people turning their back on me that I just did not understand Manjeela’s kindness. It felt uncomfortable to accept such a genuine gesture,” he adds.Manjeela then found out from the media that the popular Bollywood actor Sonu Sood was helping migrant workers like Rohit with transportation to their homes. She coordinated with Sood’s team and registered Rohit and his family so they could travel back to Bihar.“Sonu Sir came to see us off and I even got to shake his hands,” smiles Rohit. Had it not been for Manjeela and Sonu Sood, Rohit knows he would have been one of the hundreds of thousands walking home to their villages along train tracks, evicted and penniless -- an iconic image during India’s first lockdown in early 2020. “What other option did we have? Even thinking about the possibility of walking back brings tears to my eyes,” he says. <img width="640" height="853" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114091156/637203159c7e80680e0b27ecjpeg.jpg" alt=""/>Adds Rohit: “For tens of thousands like me, Sonu was a real-life hero. But for my family specifically, Manjeela was an angel. I will never be able to forget what they did for me and my family.” --AmitA quiet man with a wide smile, 45-year old Amit spent a decade in Saudi Arabia taking care of a family of 7, alongside three <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/south-asias-migrants-shared-problems-share-solutions/">other South Asian migrants</a> including a Nepali housemaid.He had come home to India for his nephew’s wedding when Covid-19 hit, and he was stuck because of a Saudi ban on flights because of the Delta outbreak. Two years later, it finally looks like he can <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/labour-mobility/crossborder-virus-and-nepali-migrant-workers/">rejoin his employment</a>, but only by making a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/indians-use-nepal-to-circumvent-travel-bans/">convoluted journey through Kathmandu</a> for a flight to Riyadh. India has finally been lifted off the Saudi red list, but direct flights from Mumbai are unaffordable for Amit. That is why he is flying from Delhi to Kathmandu along with three other stranded Indian migrant workers. This is a less expensive option – at least that is what his agent told him.Agents are skillful at finding loopholes around flight bans and restrictions, and provide options for desperate workers like Amit. But the Kathmandu option is also expensive for him: he had to pay the agent ₹85,000, including costs for a two-week quarantine in Nepal.It was not an ideal arrangement, given pre-Covid flights were a fraction of what he is paying now, but Amit says at least he will start earning again soon. The <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/living-with-covid-in-2022/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">uncertainties brought by Omicorn</a> might trap him for extended periods once again, but he cannot afford to take any more chances.“For now, the priority is my daughter’s wedding,” says Amit who will have to pay the groom up to ₹400,000 (Rs640,000) in dowry. This is over 15 months of his wages, even if he were to save every paisa. There are other regular costs to take care of back home -- for food, medicine, loans for the ticket and his children’s education, making it difficult to save even a small portion of his earnings.Amit looks out of the plane’s window (pictured right) at Himalayan peaks as the plane begins its descent into Kathmandu. He says: “The work in Saudi is not easy. What work is easy? But it pays, and that’s what matters. I can save ₹25,000 a month, and that’s more than double of what I can earn in India.” <img width="640" height="853" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114091156/637203189c7e80680e0b27edjpeg.jpg" alt="">Dhana Dhana is from Gulmi district in Nepal, and is finally flying home from Delhi after the pandemic hit two years ago.“Nepal is so close, yet I have not seen my family for two-and-half years,” he says.For many Nepalis, a work stint in India is a stepping stone to go to Malaysia or the Gulf. They can save enough in India to afford to pay recruiters for the overseas jobs.But Dhana’s work history is unique. He has been to India before, then to Malaysia, Saudi Arabia, UAE and he has come right back to India after his boss in the UAE transferred him to look after his home in India. <img width="640" height="853" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114091156/6372031b9c7e80680e0b27eejpeg.jpg" alt="">Older Nepali migrant workers find the culture and familiarity of India more appealing, even though the earnings may not be as much as elsewhere. Many others are here for seasonal work as drivers or security guards because they cannot afford to pay recruiters for jobs in the Gulf. Younger Nepalis, however, do not find India as appealing.Despite being one of the largest destination countries for Nepali workers, India seldom gets the attention it deserves and is treated akin to internal migration. There is no precise count of Nepali workers in India because of the open border and no requirement for permits. But this migrant workforce <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/indias-covid-catastrophe-hits-nepalis-hard/">suddenly became visible during India’s Covid lockdowns</a> as Nepalis <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-braces-for-its-2nd-covid-wave/">streamed back</a> in the hundreds of thousands.Dhana himself works at an Indian household, so was spared during Covid-19. But he knows of many Nepalis who suffered. Four of his acquaintances who lived close by lost their lives during the 2021 Delta peak.Deaths of Nepali workers in India also go largely unnoticed -- with or without Covid-19. There is no count, no compensation to families of the deceased, and no government help with repatriation as happened from the Gulf or Malaysia.“The only consolation is that here you can expect that full procedures will be followed during funerals according to Hindu rituals which you probably cannot expect elsewhere,” says Dhana. “The Nepal government should compensate families of the deceased as they are from the poorest families.”But he is quick to note the privileges of being a migrant in India versus other countries where he has lived and worked. “You don’t become undocumented in India. You are not obliged to stay with the same employer,” he says.Dhana should know: he has spent months hiding in the jungles of Johor Baru in Malaysia with 19 other Nepalis to avoid raids when he became undocumented because his employer went bankrupt.He quit his job in Saudi Arabia after three months despite having paid Rs100,000 to a recruiter. In both cases, he felt trapped as he wasn’t able to exit the countries without incurring fees, and was <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/in-the-minds-of-nepals-migrant-workers/">mentally stressed.</a>After making a full circle back to India where he had spent over a decade in his early twenties before venturing to Malaysia and the Gulf, he values the freedom for <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/people-to-people-at-india-nepal-border/">Nepali workers like him in India. </a>Some names have been changed.

Rohit, Amit and Dhana

The Kathmandu Valley has attracted an exceptional number of outstanding and accomplished foreigners over the decades, but few as extraordinary as Marilyn Silverstone (1929-1999).&nbsp; Frances Klatzel’s book A Portrait of Ourselves, Marilyn Silverstone: From Photojournalist to Buddhist Nun, is a fitting and fascinating biographical celebration of this American woman whose life of unusual choices took her, as the title suggests, from an affluent Jewish childhood in Scarsdale, New York to becoming an acclaimed and adventurous Magnum photographer.&nbsp; Roving the world, her camera captured many of the most iconic events of the 20th century, her images were published in Time, Life, Newsweek, Look, National Geographic, Paris Match, Vogue and other magazines. Following the teachings of Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, Marilyn Silverstone devoted the last twenty years of her eventful life to living quietly and practising Buddhism in Nepal. Ordained as a Buddhist nun, she took vows in the sanctified Solukhumbu precincts of Thubten Choling with Venerable Trulshik Rinpoche in the spring of 1977. Living in Kathmandu until her death in Shechen Monastery, which she helped create, Marilyn wrote: ‘When I look back over the years, although I did not know it at the time, ending my life as a Buddhist nun was logical and inevitable.’&nbsp; Ani Marilyn was a familiar figure amid the sacred spaces of the Valley, the lanes of Boudha and even Kathmandu’s drawing rooms during my early years in Nepal, a large smiling presence draped in maroon robes, dyed sneakers, slightly whiskered, robust.&nbsp; As a wedding gift she gave Tenzin and I an inscribed copy of her slim volume, Ocean of Life, aptly named for the span of her achievements and expansive embrace – editor, translator, writer, filmmaker, photographer, journalist and Buddhist nun. Marilyn’s nephew wrote: ‘Her legacy was that she was always herself no matter what chapter of her life that she was living.’  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100124_70d489c3d161f59668f315ede60cbb213d365357b0a9f2d7aad3b537a14dcb5e.png" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20260122100124_70d489c3d161f59668f315ede60cbb213d365357b0a9f2d7aad3b537a14dcb5e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1164" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Ani Marilyn"> <figcaption>Ani Marilyn as a Tibetan Buddhist nun at Shechen Monastery in Boudha.</figcaption> </figure>  Working with a wide range of impeccable sources, Frances Klatzel has assembled first-hand the personal recollections and unsparing insights from Marilyn’s most intimate friends. One of these, Jane Abell Coon, wrote the Introduction. She was a well-known person in 1980s Kathmandu whose husband Carlton Coon served as American Ambassador to Nepal and she simultaneously as American Ambassador in Bangladesh.&nbsp; The book begins with a rare message from the 14th Dalai Lama and a touching Foreword by Venerable Rabjam Rinpoche. It ends with exquisite excerpts from a Buddhist religious tract that Marilyn had translated from its traditional Tibetan text. Marilyn’s initial trip to India was to photograph Ravi Shankar in 1955, the classical sitar maestro. Increasingly fascinated by ‘the complex and compassionate culture’ of Tibet, her Himalayan archives include images throughout India, Nepal, Sikkim and Bhutan.&nbsp; The first internationally accredited photojournalist to base herself in India, from 1959 Marilyn lived in Bombay then Delhi, with her lifelong partner Frank Moraes, the Goan journalist, writer, commentator and first Indian editor of the Times of India after Independence. INDIAN INFLUENCERS I remember being taken to meet the legendary Frank Moraes in 1973, by then politically exiled in Marilyn’s elegant but chaotic London house, a magnet for South Asian intellectuals. She was not there, but Frank’s son the poet Dom Moraes was slumped desultory on a sagging sofa. My impression of Frank was well-dressed, polite and slightly distracted. Marilyn’s talent for friendship and wide network of Indian influencers and princely connections gave her unique access to historic events, as well as recording refugees, rituals, droughts, floods, famines and funerals. In addition to maharajahs and global leaders, her images portray personal moments, ordinary people, unflinching pain and flashes of joy. She said: ‘In my job, the closer you get to people, the better off you are.’ This book is illustrated with a thrilling trove of pictures of and by Marilyn, many of which reflect the impact of Henri Cartier-Bresson who signed her up as one of the first women to join his prestigious Magnum photo cooperative.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100124_6dfdef41da5945aea0a8bbd8c1514af5de2adb36361d4e20c29914c59f2039e0.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20260122100124_6dfdef41da5945aea0a8bbd8c1514af5de2adb36361d4e20c29914c59f2039e0" data-rendition-name="original" width="2124" height="1404" loading="lazy" alt="Ani Marilyn"> </figure>  Her assignments ranged across warzones in Vietnam, the Shah of Iran’s coronation, and Russian tanks rolling into Prague. Marilyn’s 1960s involved constant travel, her Magnum beat was the ‘Far East’, from Pakistan and Bangladesh to China, Korea, and Japan.&nbsp; With a knack at being in the right place at the right time, Marilyn was the only western woman journalist to record the arrival from Lhasa into ‘safety and exile’ of the young Dalai Lama in 1959. She was at Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru’s funeral in Delhi, the Chogyal of Sikkim’s marriage to Hope Cooke, and with Jacqueline Kennedy on a small boat at the Lake Palace of Udaipur.&nbsp; Marilyn snapped the Pope giving blessings in Bombay, Mother Teresa attending to the poor, and the Beatles on their way to meet the Maharishi. With Frank, she travelled to Africa and shot Emperor Haile Selassie in Ethiopia, Nigeria’s independence celebrations, and a very old and solar-topied Dr Albert Schweitzer in his jungle hospital in Gabon.&nbsp; A Portrait of Ourselves, Marilyn Silverstone: From Photojournalist to Buddhist Nun, is a highly recommended tribute to an inspirational life, told with discerning honesty and private perceptions by those who knew her best.&nbsp; Her monastic years living in Nepal continued to feature travel, hard work, undiminished curiosity, dogged fights for right, uncompromising support for others, disdain for conformity and battles with ill health, but all with her characteristic good humour. Marilyn leaves us with some sound advice in her own words: “I can say that I did it all. The secret though is just keep walking through life without analysing it too much or clinging to it too much. Just walk on.” &nbsp;&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100140_dc0c465e462bd14e92b2a2e79b5349f23fa039bcda81cc02a9a70adbcee35c7b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20260122100140_dc0c465e462bd14e92b2a2e79b5349f23fa039bcda81cc02a9a70adbcee35c7b" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="marilyn silverstone"> </figure>

“Just walk on”

The pale green ice on the top of the lake gleams in the pale January sunlight. The dark waters beneath are visible through the translucent frozen surface. This is Thulagi Glacial Lake at the foot of Mt Manaslu in central Nepal, classified as one of the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/danger-nepal-s-glacial-lakes-are-filling-up">most dangerous lakes </a>to appear in the Himalaya due to climate heating.&nbsp; The place is breathtaking not just because of its 4,050m altitude, but the scenery all around. The beauty belies the threat this expanding lake poses downstream along the Marsyangdi Valley. &nbsp; The lake lies at the terminus of the 4.5km long Thulagi Glacier. The local Gurung inhabitants call it Dona Tal. They say it started appearing in the 1960s. Local guide Chandra Bahadur Gurung, 47, has been ferrying trekkers to the spot for about 20 years.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_a34407fbb58b41554f08d392933ea32360649deaf712e2221686533f81507f58.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20260122100136_a34407fbb58b41554f08d392933ea32360649deaf712e2221686533f81507f58" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>MELTING MOUNTAINS: Thulagi Glacial Lake in Manang has been identified among 47 lakes in Nepal at risk of an outburst flood because of climate breakdown. All photos: DURGA RANA MAGAR</figcaption> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_4d3c25c9b4f6eaff3e538b36346471c301d38338514bfdfa9ee63ccd77d20489.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20260122100136_4d3c25c9b4f6eaff3e538b36346471c301d38338514bfdfa9ee63ccd77d20489" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>Yaks graze below Thulagi Himal (7,059m) and Mt Manaslu (8,163m) along the Dona Khola that drains the lake.</figcaption> </figure>  “Dona used to be small, but it has now grown bigger,” he says, gesturing to how the glacier has receded and shrunk. Trekkers used to be able to go to the other side, but now the glacier is riddled with ponds and boulders falling off the moraine that make it dangerous.&nbsp; Gurung adds rather matter-of-factly: “The lake will burst sooner or later.”&nbsp; Kathmandu-based International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD) has been studying Thulagi for the past two decades. Topographic maps from the 1960s and early satellite images show the lake being much smaller.&nbsp; When the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-s-resource-curse">Marsyangdi Hydropower Project</a> project was being built in 1994, the German Institute of Geology and Natural Resources with the Department of Hydrology and Meteorology measured the lake to be already 2km in length. More recent surveys show the lake has increased its size since then to more than 1 sq km. &nbsp; The lake is among 47 <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/meltpools-in-the-himalaya">dangerous glacial lakes in Nepal and Tibet </a>&nbsp;identified by ICIMOD in 2020 due to its size, the risk of landslides and avalanches, and the gradual collapse of the lake’s ice-core moraine dam.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_9b9fea3665494614c2d89e4202c735fd642a13552d67ca2be3da5c390320ca9b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20260122100136_9b9fea3665494614c2d89e4202c735fd642a13552d67ca2be3da5c390320ca9b" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>Local guide Chandra Bahadur Gurung has been taking trekkers up to Thulagi Lake for 20 years.</figcaption> </figure>  In 2018 a team of glaciologists led by Umesh K Haritasya <a href="https://www.mdpi.com/2072-4292/10/5/798">published a journal article</a> about the evolution of three glacial lakes including Thulagi, Lower Barun, and Imja. Even back in 1976, Thulagi was twice the size of <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/from-nepali-press/Diverting-danger,3172">Imja glacial lake</a> in the Khumbu and six times the size of the Lower Barun. The team measured the lake’s depth at 79m, and calculated that it held 36.1 million m3 of water. Since then, Thulagi has been growing at a slower rate than the other two lakes because it is shielded by shadows of mountains. There is also not as much glacial calving in the narrow valley.&nbsp; Nonetheless, scientists and experts have long warned that a Glacial Lake Outburst Flood (GLOF) from Thulagi poses a big risk to four hydropower projects on the Marsyangdi and settlements like Besisahar and Dumre (map).  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260125130136_eac3ccf38d2f91619825ab977bb21ea3eee84d6e87939721f9a8dbb7f0f22504.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20260125130136_eac3ccf38d2f91619825ab977bb21ea3eee84d6e87939721f9a8dbb7f0f22504" data-rendition-name="original" width="2076" height="1444" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi map"> </figure>  The lake feeds into Dona Khola, a tributary of the Marsyangdi where the 49.9MW Dona Khola hydropower project is being built at a cost of Rs10 billion. Another 42MW Super Dona Khola project is planned on the river. “One of the trigger points that could lead to a glacial lake outburst could be the steep lateral moraine, which might be weakened by rapidly melting permafrost,” says Scott Watson, a University of Leeds researcher who was part of the team that conducted the 2018 study. Locals are already witnessing what Watson describes. They say that it was easy to reach Thulagi’s headwaters even until a few years ago, but that is now dangerous because of ice and rockfalls.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_217a1951a620e8efe11e5936600be172874976a0c04a1031495cf6687ce8f82c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="20260122100136_217a1951a620e8efe11e5936600be172874976a0c04a1031495cf6687ce8f82c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1426" height="1070" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>The 50MW Upper Marsyangdi Hydropower Project station in Lamjung. A Thulagi Lake outburst would damage four hydropower projects on the Marsyangdi and its tributaries.</figcaption> </figure>  GLOF WARNING&nbsp; Glaciologist Rijan Bhakta Kayastha has been studying Thulagi since 1994, and was part of a team that discovered that the lake’s terminal moraine was made up of rocky soil on top and ice at its core.&nbsp; In 2020, Kayastha's team published a study that modelled the route of a possible GLOF. They found that if the lake burst, it would take 2.5 hours to reach Dharapani, and 4 hours to reach Bahundanda 39km downstream. The surge would be 13.7m high at Dharapani and 15m by the time it reached Taal, the village most at risk because it is situated only a few metres above the Marsyangdi. ‘Considering the size of the Thulagi glacial lake and its dam, it seems unlikely that a rock fall or avalanche would cause the lake to breach the moraine dam,” concluded the study. “But an earthquake or climate change would require a separate study. At present, there is no immediate or imminent threat of this glacier bursting.” MEMORIES OF 2021 Across Manang valley, residents are haunted by the memories of the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/himalayan-floods-a-sign-of-worse-to-come">2021 flood on the Marsyangdi</a> that swept away parts of Chame, Dharapani, Naso, and Taal villages.&nbsp; Kamarkali Gurung, grew up on the banks of the Marsyangdi in Dharapani, and had never imagined that the tranquil river she knew could become such a monster. She had saved up to build her own three-story property with 17 rooms.&nbsp; Her family was away that June evening when the flood swept away her hotel. “Not even a spoon remained, everything was gone,” says Kamarkali. “Losing the hotel hurt like losing a loved one. The Marsyangdi flows through my house now, I can never go back.”&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_925087c286f18a0374f5d2fae5cc528b6e8b5a55e02813e470c49b923b4f193a.jpg" data-media-id="editor_11" data-image-id="20260122100136_925087c286f18a0374f5d2fae5cc528b6e8b5a55e02813e470c49b923b4f193a" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>SURVIVORS: Kamarkali Gurung's hotel was swept away by the 2021 flood on the Marsyangdi. She now operates her hotel from a rented house in Dharapani.</figcaption> </figure>  Surendra Gurung, also a hotelier, was in Dharapani the night of the flood, and can still remember the fear as the river roared towards the village. “I did not know if I would live or die,” he says.&nbsp; Sirantal village was merely 10m above the Marsyangdi, and was completely destroyed by the flood. Thirty-two people were rescued by army helicopters, and most of the families have now relocated to Taal.&nbsp; One of them is Singha Bahadur Gurung who also ran a lodge for 20 years. “We did not have to buy anything except rice, the soil in Sirantal was so fertile,” he remembers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_9da9290e59a6d565ae9cb81a850f725ccd937fd658d0adfabccfe4114ec94bed.jpg" data-media-id="editor_12" data-image-id="20260122100136_9da9290e59a6d565ae9cb81a850f725ccd937fd658d0adfabccfe4114ec94bed" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>Singha Bahadur Gurung operated a lodge in Sirantal before the flood swept it away in 2021.</figcaption> </figure>  Marsyangdi now flows through where Singha Gurung’s village used to be. “Ever since the flood, I am terrified every time it rains from June to August,” he says.&nbsp; The 2021 flood was during the monsoon, and was caused by unusually heavy rainfall in the catchment. A GLOF on the Marsyangdi would be much more destructive. Roshni Ghale, 46, runs a hotel in Taal, and escaped with her family to a nearby cave as the flood engulfed nearby homes.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_7a6b74a4c33b597e2815b035ec5d56ffea35923016518f0fb35bcc4fc925dccd.jpg" data-media-id="editor_13" data-image-id="20260122100136_7a6b74a4c33b597e2815b035ec5d56ffea35923016518f0fb35bcc4fc925dccd" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>Roshni Ghale spent six months after the 2021 flood rebuilding her hotel in Taal. Tourism has steadily picked up in the four years since the flood. </figcaption> </figure>  “We spent the next six months after the flood rebuilding our lives, going to bed hungry many a night,” she recalls. In the four years since, tourism has picked up again, but the<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/the-unseen-wounds-of-climate-disasters"> community is still traumatised</a>. In the wake of the floods, the government had begun talks to rehabilitate and repatriate the community, but until now, they have been <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/from-one-disaster-to-the-next">empty promises</a>. In any case, the people here, most of them experienced hoteliers whose livelihood depends on tourism, are unwilling to uproot their lives and start over elsewhere.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260122100136_9a13c863422806eefdcd826ed12f9906e2372bd8f60f83c5351652eccf050384.jpg" data-media-id="editor_16" data-image-id="20260122100136_9a13c863422806eefdcd826ed12f9906e2372bd8f60f83c5351652eccf050384" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="844" loading="lazy" alt="Thulagi glof"> <figcaption>Most of the survivors of the 2021 flood on the Marsyangdi from villages like Sirantal have relocated to the upstream village of Taal, which itself was hit by a monsoon flood in 2021.</figcaption> </figure>  DISASTER PREPAREDNESS Even though studies have assessed the risk of GLOFs in Manang and across Nepal, and warned about the damage that such floods could cause, it took until 2021 for early warning systems to be installed on the banks of the Marsyangdi and in the town of Taal.&nbsp; But beyond that, there has been little preparedness. Early warning systems and disaster preparedness are necessary not just along the Marsyangdi but also at and around Thulagi itself, say experts. Locals here are becoming increasingly aware of the risk posed by the expanding lake up the valley, but are reluctant to leave homes and communities that they have lived in for generations. The hydropower projects on the Dona Khola promises jobs, and the local government is upgrading the hiking trail to Thulagi Lake which has become a tourist attraction. “Manang now gets <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/too-little-snow-too-much-rain">too little snow and too much rain</a>, and the Marsyangdi charts its own course,” says Min Rashi Gurung, chair of Ward-1 of Naso rural municipality, where Thulagi is located. &nbsp; But help may be on the way.Last year, the Green Climate Fund (GCF) approved a $36.1 million grant to help Nepal reduce risk of GLOFs in Thulagi and four other glacial lakes. The project is managed by the government and the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP). The project is set to begin next fiscal year, and will reduce the water level in the four glacial lakes including Thulagi, similar to what was done in Imja and Tso Rolpa, says Dinkar Kayastha at the Department of Hydrology and Meteorology. &nbsp; Centre for Investigative Journalism - Nepal

Hotter Himalaya melts glaciers

This is the 81st 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 went to Australia in 2008 because everyone was headed there. It was my first time leaving the country and my first job. My college helped me find work as a kitchen helper at a Brisbane restaurant.&nbsp; I did not know that being a kitchen helper meant washing dishes. I was young and did not know how to wash dishes or how to handle the steam, the hot water, and the busy kitchen. The utensils were thrown at the dishwashing station continuously, and water splashed on my face. My shoes and clothes were always wet. It was an on-call job. A couple of days into the job, I was asked to come in when I was at the movies. I refused. They fired me. That was that. I then worked on a farm, picking lemons and oranges. The lemon work was particularly hard because I would get cuts all over my hands. This hustle was not for me.&nbsp; Within a year in Australia, I decided to return to Nepal because the foreign life did not suit me. After spending eight months in Nepal, reality sank in. Nepal was not all that great either. I went back to Australia. On the plane, I befriended a Nepali woman who was homesick and a first time traveler. At the immigration in Australia, the officer noticed my long absence and started interrogating me. He noticed the Nepali woman waiting for me and asked who she was. Without thinking I lied that she was my girlfriend. That seemed to do the trick because he did not want us to be separated. He stamped my passport. She went her way. I went mine.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260127130112_5e7bfa6acc5f94d5f1905537e387c2d4169469679ace2b71de368912f3bd514f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20260127130112_5e7bfa6acc5f94d5f1905537e387c2d4169469679ace2b71de368912f3bd514f" data-rendition-name="original" width="987" height="1004" loading="lazy" alt="DD 81 NT"> </figure>  In Sydney, I again found a dishwashing job at a fine dining restaurant. A Sri Lankan colleague helped me learn the job. The pace at which I had to do the dishes was insane but I got the hang of it in two weeks. I always dreamt of one day wearing the chef’s white coat. It commanded respect, I could tell. In addition to becoming good at my job washing dishes, I also had good language and networking skills so I built good relationships with colleagues. There was a need for a pizza chef at the restaurant. It was expensive to hire someone new, and they asked me if I was up for the job. I said yes even though I knew nothing about making pizzas. My Italian colleagues coached me and before I knew it, I became better than others at the job. Soon, I realised that I did not just want to make pizzas. Whatever I wanted to learn, I just asked seniors to take me under their wings and I would help without pay. They would agree but still pay me. It wasn’t a strategy per se, I genuinely wanted to learn. At some point, a Japanese sous chef in my restaurant and I had coincidentally applied to the same restaurant, and there, under him, I got to learn even more. Working with a Japanese chef is really difficult, but you learn a lot. He would sometimes even hold my hand with tongs dipped in hot water when I screwed something up. I worked in a few restaurants after this and was earning well. When one of my colleagues, a dishwasher, was let go unfairly, I decided to leave because I did not want to be a quiet bystander to this act. I returned to Nepal immediately after this.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026012719010_f33ba38bb5f86f1d33262fd0d7ccd09ed01f6cc52148ca3d4cd66c434b695730.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2026012719010_f33ba38bb5f86f1d33262fd0d7ccd09ed01f6cc52148ca3d4cd66c434b695730" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="DD 82"> </figure>  I started a restaurant called Ghumti, but it was struggling. The location of the restaurants was not good and it failed. I bought another restaurant in Darbar Marg. I was managing two restaurants when Covid hit. The rent kept piling up, and there was no revenue. I took a huge loss. I gave them up and returned to Chitwan and started making migration plans. I came across a job vacancy for Alba in Qatar by the famous Enrico Crippa. I still remember the heat when I got out of the airport in Doha, it was like entering an oven. Thankfully, I had a Nepali roommate who showed me around and helped me adjust.&nbsp; The hotel was still under construction, but training had started. We worked really hard for the opening and things went well. In 2023, we even won the Best MENA Restaurant award. But at some point in 2024, the international Crippa chain decided to leave.&nbsp; Some colleagues including the head chef left and I suddenly was put in charge. I had some head chef experience from Australia and had previous experience working in high pressure environments, so I stepped up. We had to start from scratch again, this time as Alba in Raffles, Doha.&nbsp; The name of our restaurant comes from the Alba white truffle, which is the best available and is expensive, selling at around 40,000 QAR per kg. We had heard the official announcement that the Michelin was coming to Qatar, and we worked even harder.&nbsp; Michelin inspections are strict, highly secretive and you have no idea you are being investigated. Even then, we were up for the game. We were ‘selected’ which meant we had potential.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026012719010_bab3a904af69603e9e79f333aeea89b035401c0c8d1750930107f3594ff1f565.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2026012719010_bab3a904af69603e9e79f333aeea89b035401c0c8d1750930107f3594ff1f565" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="697" loading="lazy" alt="DD 81"> </figure>  I went to the award ceremony with low expectations. But because they announce the name alphabetically, Alba came first. I was very happy and felt validated. Being recognised as a Michelin one star restaurant is a huge achievement for us. My MD reminded me of a promise I had made of getting a Michelin tattoo if we got the award. I guess I will get it done when I come to Nepal next. My plan is to get a tattoo that captures my journey right from the dishwashing days.&nbsp; I have cooked for Obama, Beckham, Kaka, Trump, 50 Cent, Lindsay Lohan, you name it, because our restaurant is visited by high profile guests. At first, I used to feel the pressure. Now I view all guests as the same. The food you make is the same no matter who is eating it. I love the work. In fact, it does not feel like work. The rush in the kitchen, the atmosphere, the heat, the scent, I live for it. When I am not working, I get bored. It is like an addiction without which I get withdrawals. I want to contribute in introducing Nepali cuisine and ingredients in the worldstage. Nepalis overseas have a lot of potential in the hospitality sector. But my advice to youth is to focus on building a strong base and invest in learning. It is increasingly common for Nepalis to job hop for a salary jump. While other skills like language are also important, it is the hard skills that we really need to focus on. In our field of work, it is the plate that needs to speak.

Sky is the limit

A mighty metal bird, ‘Heron on Hunt’ spreads its wings and unhinges its mouth hungrily. It looks down at ‘The Defending Crab,’ which has windshield wipers for legs and opens its pincers defiantly at the heron, daring it to attack. The crab shell is made of a ceiling fan, the blades of which have been cut up to form the bird’s wings. “The story is that you are what you eat,” says artist <a href="https://taragaonnext.com/events/artist-in-studio-9-metamorphosis-by-saurab-koirala/" target="_blank">Saurab Koirala</a>, whose solo exhibition ‘<a href="https://taragaonnext.com/events/artist-in-studio-9-metamorphosis-by-saurab-koirala/" target="_blank">Metamorphosis</a>’ at <a href="https://taragaonnext.com/events/archiving-for-the-future-an-intersection-of-heritage-and-architecture/" target="_blank">Taragaon Next </a>has sculptures made of material retrieved from garbage warehouses. Koirala was in the studio when protestors ransacked the adjacent Hyatt Hotel on 9 September. The windows of the iconic museum designed by <a href="https://www.archdaily.com/957728/carl-pruscha-an-architect-investigating-overlooked-territories" target="_blank">architect Carl Pruscha</a> in the 1960s were all shattered, but the studio survived. He used the broken glass to make fins for his fish sculptures and wings for insects.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026012409010_0c6c0f6d69472940e1c623db7bae62235a18ded418066b1c8ecc89485d76dcd4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="2026012409010_0c6c0f6d69472940e1c623db7bae62235a18ded418066b1c8ecc89485d76dcd4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Saurab Koirala exhibition Taragaon Next NT"></figure>  Metamorphosis is a reference to the transformation of trash into art, but it is also fitting because many of the repurposed items are of insects: a firefly, a dung beetle, a spider, a dragonfly, a queen ant. The most striking are the pair of praying mantises, the smaller one is black, made of windshield wipers, and the larger grey one is made of a motorcycle silencer, bicycle parts, and a fluorescent tube holder. About the unrealistic size difference, Koirala notes that each piece is made of a component that defines its size. For the larger grey mantis, the defining piece is the silencer that makes up its torso. “The mantises are mating,” Koirala explains. “The female mantis will cannibalise the male afterwards, and the dragonfly witnesses the whole scene.” It is possible to look at each installation and immediately recognise what it is meant to be, but on looking closer we see what the parts are made of, and how. The exhibition is from Koirala’s Taragaon Next residency program sponsored by the Saraf Foundation.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026012409010_35d47a71c3e357d4cdba166cdcbf37019639c68a3d69a158f19fe97ea48065ea.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="2026012409010_35d47a71c3e357d4cdba166cdcbf37019639c68a3d69a158f19fe97ea48065ea" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Saurab Koirala exhibition Taragaon Next NT"></figure>  Koirala thinks of himself as primarily a painter and a caricature artist, and not a sculptor. His mother was a teacher, and would make miniature animals, gods, houses for her students. “Seeing how happy she was doing that made me want to do it too, although she did not want me to be an artist,” Koirala recalls. Some of his mother’s creations are also on display at the exhibition. Koirala got more experience working with 3D models digitally in his work at Incessant Rain animation studio, especially animals. This seems to have given him strong visualisation skills that he has put to use in the art pieces, using minimal bending and cutting. Koirala participated in the WastArt Competition in 2018, where his Danphe sculpture made from colourful coke and soda cans was so striking that it became a part of the permanent collection at the Sagarmatha Next Art Gallery in Syangboche. Koirala worked in the studio in Khumbu, fashioning yaks and bees out of trekking trash.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026012409010_253578bca93f136dca51102fc03a675cc3a8f47ba0b2d31ae2a4020c2c6e7485.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="2026012409010_253578bca93f136dca51102fc03a675cc3a8f47ba0b2d31ae2a4020c2c6e7485" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Saurab Koirala exhibition Taragaon Next NT"></figure>  “My back hurts,” he grimaces as he opens the doors to the studio, an unassuming shed a short walk from the exhibition which is littered with metal spare parts for future art. He has gone through three whole bicycles with a power saw. Koirala seems to want to alter the scrap as little as possible, and it is uncanny how well some of it fits the pieces. The aerodynamic curved fuel tank of a Bajaj Avenger motorcycle becomes the abdomen of a gigantic queen ant. A mosquito repellent becomes the green body of a spider. A stapler and a coconut turn into a snail. The steel legs of a rolling office chair curve exactly into the legs and paws of a fox in motion. “I did not want the animals to be in static poses. I wanted to capture dynamic movement,” says Koirala. Fittingly, most of the parts he has chosen have come from vehicles: bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, car horns, air filters. While Koirala’s work in his Sagarmatha Next residency was about waste encroaching into nature in the mountains, his work in Metamorphosis is a nostalgic memory of a happy childhood in Biratnagar. ‘There used to be abundant dragonflies in my hometown,’ writes Koirala in his description. “As kids, we would catch them and tie threads to their tails and fly them like kites.” The message about the degradation of nature is more valid than ever. The world is seeing the mass extinction of insects, and uncontrolled urbanisation of polluted Kathmandu Valley means only ants and some spiders survive. Artist in Studio #9: <a href="https://taragaonnext.com/events/artist-in-studio-9-metamorphosis-by-saurab-koirala/" target="_blank">Metamorphosis</a> <a href="https://taragaonnext.com/" target="_blank">Taragaon Next</a> Till 30 January 10AM-5:30PM

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