In April 2011, Himal Khabar published a list of 51 bills and 10 treaties and agreements registered in the Parliament Secretariat, questioning the effectiveness of the Speaker in Parliament. The Speaker was Subhas Chandra Nembang.&nbsp; The report concluded that the Constituent Assembly and the Legislative Parliament were not constructive as Speaker Nembang had not been able to hold CA members accountable for their wrongdoings.&nbsp; Nembang, to whom the magazine reached out routinely for comment, did not refute the report, or even address it in public. &nbsp; In his 42-year-long political career, Subhas Chandra Nembang was known for his politics of consensus, cooperation, and communication. His personal philosophy of tolerance and accommodation extended not only to politics but also to the media.&nbsp; The UML vice-chair and former Speaker of the House passed away early Tuesday morning due to a heart attack at his Baluwatar residence. He was 71.&nbsp; In an interview about state restructuring, Nembang said in 2009, “It is wisest to analyse Nepal’s circumstances objectively and protect our achievements. Those who are uncompromising in their positions may soon find themselves having missed the forest for the trees.”&nbsp; Many were critical of Nembang’s moderate politics. But over time, his analyses of Nepal’s politics would mostly come to be on the mark. &nbsp; Nembang had the ability to present disagreeable topics in a dignified manner, something that has become uncommon in Nepal’s political leadership. It would not be wrong to call him a gentleman of Nepal's politics. &nbsp; He was among a rare breed of Nepali politicians who understood the dynamics between politics and the press, expressing his respect towards media freedom even when journalists were critical of him. &nbsp; When called on the phone for a quote, he would respond with, “It is much better to speak in person.” &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230912160912_df1d51cc05a1dcba55b1a4eaa9aac9389af9af6fdd00133c10b1d5511b8aaf00.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20230912160912_df1d51cc05a1dcba55b1a4eaa9aac9389af9af6fdd00133c10b1d5511b8aaf00" data-rendition-name="original" width="3594" height="2396" loading="lazy" alt="2015 constitution promulgation"> </figure>  Over the years, during meetings at his office in the Parliament building in Baneswor, the Speaker’s residence in Baluwatar, Singha Darbar, the UML party office in Balkhu or his Pioneer Law Associates, the gist of his conversation would always be the same: “Himal, Pahad, Tarai need to unite. There is no alternative to consensus.”&nbsp; Nembang was a shrewd communicator, often telling media personnel during conversations: “Quote me on this, and attribute the rest to ‘sources’”.&nbsp; Nembang was born in 1953 in Ilam’s Suntalabari village. He was politically active in the UML since his student days in 1971 at the Ilam Multipurpose Campus when he was elected chairman of the All Nepal National Free Students Union.&nbsp; Nembang, whose father was a district judge, followed his footsteps into law. As a lawyer, he was general secretary of the Nepal Bar Association in 1987. He was also a faculty at the Kathmandu Law Campus.&nbsp; He was first elected to parliament from Ilam’s second constituency in 1991, and a second time in 1999. He also served as the Minister for Law, Justice and Parliamentary Affairs in communist Prime Minister Manmohan Adhikari’s government.&nbsp; Nembang served as the Speaker of the House in 2006 and as chair of the Constituent Assembly in both 2008 and 2014. He was also the Speaker in 2015. With his constitutional and legal background, he is also credited with contributing significantly to the promulgation of Nepal’s 2015 Constitution. He became the UML vice-chair in 2018. In November 2022, he was once again elected to parliament from Ilam’s second constituency. He was subsequently the UML nominee for Nepal’s President but lost to coalition presidential candidate Ram Chandra Paudel during the presidential election in March.&nbsp; During his four decades in politics, Nembang cultivated an image of an easy-going, approachable leader, and was seen as a non-confrontational politician who often took the initiative to resolve deadlocks in disputes within the UML, while also crossing ideological lines to mediate among Nepal’s feuding political parties.&nbsp; In an age of cynical, kleptocratic and regressive politics, Nepal will miss Nembang’s gentle ways.&nbsp;

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The gentleman of Nepal's politics is gone

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234af9c7e80680e0c4948jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1280" height="854"/><figcaption>Hubert Decleer with rhesus monkeys in Swyambhunath. Photos: SIERRA GLADFELTER</figcaption></figure>These past weeks I have been thinking a lot about <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Himalayan-passages-tibetan-and-newar-studies-hubert-decleer,1966" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Hubert Decleer</a>, who died a year ago at age 81.I vividly remember when he related his cancer diagnosis via video call in early 2021, his remarkable wife, poet Nazneen Zafar, sharing the cramped screen and the awful news.But Hubert was happily himself when we spoke that day, me in Washington, DC, and Hubert and Nazneen at home in Chhauni in Kathmandu. As I teared up, Hubert was gently pragmatic.With a wry smile he said that “the end must come to each of us”. He was grateful, grinning, for “the very good life” that he had lived, and expectant, eyes bright, in preparing for the next great journey. At his death on 25 August 2021 at home near the glorious, self-emergent chaitya of Swayambhu, Hubert was still the teacher and consummate connector of people that he had been for decades.In these times of darkness and separation, half-truths, untruths and ignorance let us refresh our human connections with friends, with idiosyncratic mentors, with poets, musicians, and even neighbours. These connections to unique minds and hearts are what make us human and push us to new, uncharted places — as Hubert Decleer did for so many.Hubert read widely in Buddhist texts, translating and annotating works that literally traced journeys: of Buddhist pandits, translators and pilgrims, and the transmission lineages and pith instructions they spread.A traveller himself, he came overland from Belgium to Asia in 1963, continuing for dozens of trips afterward, often at the helm of a tour bus wending through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan before reaching India.He particularly loved ancient biographies and pilgrimage guides, partly because they showed us what many 11th-century Newars, Biharis and Tibetans already knew — and we often seem to forget at our peril — that the world is awash with artistic and spiritual borrowing, copying, trading. Humans are eminent cross pollinators.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234b39c7e80680e0c4949jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="427" height="640"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Hubert would trace references, footnotes, oral legends across centuries, as if they were the clues to a completely current mystery: Bengali and Kashmiri pandits who passed through the Valley en route to Tibet, or an eminent Tibetan reincarnate Lama, down from the cold plateau in the mid-18th century, writing praises to the ‘Lord of the Plain’ (our Great Black One of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/kathmandu-loses-its-open-spaces/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Tundikhel</a>).Hubert was absolutely an old-school intellectual, researcher and digger into texts. But his feet firmly planted on the ground, and he loved a good yarn being himself a master storyteller. He used that gift as an educator: in print, in formal lectures and in private conversations with students.As a teacher, and powerfully well-read and reflective individual, Hubert could be intimidating. Formidable. He wanted to hear not only what you thought, but how … what kind of a person are you?Hubert watched you. He listened. He noticed. I found that unnerving. But there was no pretence, instead a quick readiness to admit the things he knew “nothing about” (though that wasn’t usually true). He expected authenticity and integrity without ever using those exact words — because he lived in that space.He seemed to ever be bringing his students to questions, goading them to ask, and pursue the unknown. He believed that young people, a priori, could do original research contributing to what we all could learn, something his students at first found hard to believe about themselves.Most of all, Hubert wanted people to leave their bubbles:  travel, truly observe the world and the people you meet, and treat them with deep respect. He was interested in what the so-called ‘ordinary', working people did. What taxi drivers, porters and dishwashers thought.We both shared a love of the old Hindu and Buddhist trope of the hidden yogi, a figure who enlivens a good tale and serves as cautionary reminder about the pitfalls of mistaking appearances for truth. The dakini sitting on the bus. The camp cook, or shepherd, or the kid next door,  who is actually a siddha — if you could just see.Hubert also had a profoundly tender side, and either it grew over the years or he let me notice it more: memories of him feeding huge rhesus mama monkeys, his head slightly turned away, arm extended with a bit of old potato, as the whole troupe surrounded him.Travelling to <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-salt-of-the-earth/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Tibet</a>, he was (rightly) often more concerned about whether drivers and local guides had eaten enough and had warm clothing than he was about the American students in tow. When you needed something, he would literally jump up from his seat and set about finding you this book or that manuscript, or recommending a local expert you really should meet.And I will never forget his great compassion when I brought up a difficult conversation to him on a visit back to Nepal ten years ago, or more now. I had feared his judgment, and found love and openness instead.He was curious about so much beyond the texts he pored over and translated. His love for music, visual arts and history made his face gleam and the talk flow.Conversations, especially from 1999–2009 when I lived in the Valley, could range from a new film I must see, his “very limited” (in fact, quite the opposite) experience of learning the sarod, to the things I, as an anthropologist, “must know something about,” for instance the contemporary Native American cultures and experiences in the US, what history did we learn in U.S. schools and had I visited “reservations”? Could I explain American obsessions with the end times and the “rapture”, which led to long digressions on millenarian movements across societies? And, of course, what was happening all around us in the Kathmandu Valley, in Nepal and in the wider Himalayan region? Hubert was a seasoned traveller, but from 1980 until his death, Kathmandu was his only home.Hubert did not ever seem to complain. He expected challenges, and he expected work. He was one of the greatest exemplars of the cumulative powers of certain daily practices: reading and translation, exercising powers of observation, working with self-doubt, appreciating unexpected small joys.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131128/637234b59c7e80680e0c494ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="3776" height="2520"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>What was better than Hubert laughing, eyes lit up, over a stupid pun? Or humming along, punctuating the air with mouth-trumpet sounds, as he listened to a Delta blues track he couldn’t believe I didn’t know. And Hubert and Nazneen shared one of the greatest romances and partnerships that I have ever witnessed. Wonderful hosts, constantly bringing different people together at their table, but also a complete universe unto themselves.Hubert Decleer died as he lived: never wanting to make a fuss, always looking after others, and very aware of his surroundings. That he passed away sitting up, with his body unmarked by any signs of decay for three days after his heart stopped (during Kathmandu’s monsoon season), is both utterly remarkable and, somehow, not.A man who lived so simply, whose only true possession was a room (or two) of books, his passing was the expression of his life and his daily practices. To teachers, mentors and friends of the heart like Hubert: we keep you with us. We gratefully remember.Peter Moran was the Executive Director of the binational Fulbright Commission in Nepal 2005-2009 and is currently the Director of the Humphrey Fellowship Program for the Institute of International Education in Washington, DC.

Remembering Hubert Decleer

<figure><img width="720" height="480" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101124/63720a179c7e80680e0b5580jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Paul Farmer visiting Bayalpata Hospital in Achham run by Nyaya Health Nepal on its third anniversary in 2012. Photo: DEEPAK BISTA/NHN</figcaption></figure>When we were in 11th grade, my friends and I wanted to bring healthcare services to an impoverished village near Pokhara, my hometown. The best solution we could imagine was what is colloquially called a ‘health camp’: show up in a village with a doctor and some medications, go through hundreds of patients in a few hours, and leave.  We believed that since doctors and medications were expensive, and the poor could not pay, a health camp was the best we could do. In college, my anthropology professor introduced me to the <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2000/07/10/the-good-doctor" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2000/07/10/the-good-doctor&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874284000&amp;usg=AOvVaw3b9WqU9uyWoWQXT8nuhnk4">work</a> and writings of the physician and medical anthropologist Paul Farmer, who described relegating the poor to such meager services as, quite simply, a ‘failure of imagination’. His influence transformed my thinking regarding the most vexing problems in global health: the poor are not to blame for their economic condition and its attendant health challenges. Rather, the blame falls on our collective lack of imagination, which is rooted in, to borrow another phrase from Paul, ‘the idea that some lives matter less’. And that is how Paul began to live in my mind, as he did for thousands of others interested in healthcare.  Paul provided the requisite vocabulary to make sense of deep inequities, and he inspired with his actions. He and his team at the non-profit, Partners in Health, have brought life-saving healthcare services to indigent populations by supporting 230 healthcare facilities in 12 countries.  His work inspired me to go to medical school and co-found the non-profit organization <a href="https://possiblehealth.org/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://possiblehealth.org/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874284000&amp;usg=AOvVaw0lctDu7mtRSz9-LxQCCK2B">Possible</a> with other like-minded medical students, all of us committed to expanding high quality healthcare in rural Nepal.  We had no track record, credibility, or adequate funding but Paul supported us. Graciously, he joined our Board, advised and mentored us, helped make connections, and let us leverage his credibility to raise funds. On the Partners in Health website, he <a href="https://www.pih.org/pages/mission-partners-supported-projects" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.pih.org/pages/mission-partners-supported-projects&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874284000&amp;usg=AOvVaw0QSINhU0jOZ6rB98WFGhQo">included Possible</a> as an organisation expanding the mission for high quality care for the poor.  He shared his expansive platform by including <a href="https://www.pih.org/article/mental-health-in-nepal" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.pih.org/article/mental-health-in-nepal&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874284000&amp;usg=AOvVaw3_FbKTKhT2o1BEL7JLC2RV">Possible’s work</a> alongside his. His generosity could have cut into his own fundraising efforts, but he always rejected the belief that the pie is small, and we should fight over it. He inspired us to fight for a bigger pie, and he willed that world into existence. Back in Nepal, we began with a small clinic in Achham, where 250,000 people had no access to even a single doctor. We faced many detractors, and sometimes we doubted ourselves. But his words, spoken clearly and earnestly, helped us form our moral compass and inspired a determination that would not countenance failure.  Because more funding was available for HIV programs, many advised us to open an HIV clinic, but we knew that Achham needed comprehensive services beyond strictly HIV care. Well-meaning supporters lamented, sounding much as my friends and I had in high school, that the best we could do was a series of health camps. Surely, they fretted, there was no money for anything long-term.  People seemed to have an unspoken collective agreement that when it comes to serving the poor, there are not enough resources. Paul had a phrase to describe this social myth: ‘socialisation for scarcity’. The reality is, he taught, there are enough resources in the world to provide high-quality health services to every poor person, but we fail to make this a reality. We back away from this challenge, simply because we assume it is not possible.  A well-wisher suggested that we build something in Kathmandu rather than in rural Nepal because people in Kathmandu can pay for services. This time, we thought of another phrase that Paul popularised as a reminder that the system needs to be built to serve those with the greatest needs. He called this ‘a preferential option for the poor’.  In 2009, we established <a href="https://www.nyayahealthnepal.org/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nyayahealthnepal.org/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874284000&amp;usg=AOvVaw2daT7Rc6LOR2LKA2EjC2hS">Nyaya Health Nepal</a>, a Nepal-based sister organisation to Possible, and collaborated with the Nepal government to expand to <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=17650#.YhaPTejMKPo" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D17650%23.YhaPTejMKPo&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874284000&amp;usg=AOvVaw3m5v35ikDhKesjhvT5U0Tp">Bayalpata Hospital</a>. In 2012, Paul <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2012/06/22/dr-farmer-comes-to-nepal/?fbclid=IwAR2CfOIxGCHSF4JfjKrloDWHXpBJfI9sZLjtj88cWvajfHhPs9si9iCa7Tk" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2012/06/22/dr-farmer-comes-to-nepal/?fbclid%3DIwAR2CfOIxGCHSF4JfjKrloDWHXpBJfI9sZLjtj88cWvajfHhPs9si9iCa7Tk&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874285000&amp;usg=AOvVaw201XBVs_ztoxyj50hJZze8">visited Bayalpata</a>, rounding on patients with the local clinicians, teaching and inspiring with his intellect and humor. He expressed genuine admiration towards the healthcare workers living and serving in rural Nepal.  He somehow managed to express more gratitude than he received, in a way most people would not expect from someone with his level of accomplishment. After the 2015 earthquake, our team expanded to Dolakha, and at its peak, was overseeing three permanent hospitals with 350 staff: a long way from sporadic health camps. A few years ago, I was in a small global health conference and we were waiting for Paul Farmer to speak. As most busy speakers do, we expected him to sweep in, give a talk, and jet off to the next event. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Paul. I was surprised to see him with the audience. We hugged. He asked me how I was doing and wanted to know how he could help with our work in Nepal. I thanked him for having highlighted the importance of mental health in high-profile global health meetings.  He thanked me for working in mental health, <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Neglect-of-the-neglected,3157" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Neglect-of-the-neglected,3157&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874285000&amp;usg=AOvVaw0auYYYnEoYwjjdnKwxAe0y">a persistently ignored area</a>. He then walked around the room, surprising and personally checking in with several people who were working in different parts of the world. Later, the organisers told me that Paul had asked for the list of attendees so he could check in with the people he knew were doing similar work in global health.  He did not need to do any of this. He had a way of being present with you, listening, inspiring, and building solidarity for his commitment to the most vulnerable. On 21 February, 2022, Paul passed away in his sleep in Rwanda, where he had been teaching and seeing patients at the University of Global Health Equity, a <a href="https://ughe.org/the-story-behind-the-university" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://ughe.org/the-story-behind-the-university&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874285000&amp;usg=AOvVaw2OnM0VBt6sfqmNWZknDP__">world-class university</a> that he helped to establish. He was 62. He left behind three children and his wife, Didi Bertrand Farmer, a medical anthropologist from Haiti.  As Bill Gates <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2022/02/paul-farmer-obituary-bill-gates/622876" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2022/02/paul-farmer-obituary-bill-gates/622876&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874285000&amp;usg=AOvVaw2pWB2FnOg2yFeVjuBWHH4X">wrote recently</a>, the void Paul left cannot be filled by anyone. But I know that although he is gone, his work will continue through how he influenced us, through his incisive writing and inspiring legacy. He will continue to live in my mind, urging us not to succumb to failures of imagination, and instead to fight against socialisation for scarcity to boldly build a preferential option for the poor.Bibhav Acharya, MD is a psychiatrist, an Associate Professor at University of California San Francisco, and co-founder of <a href="https://possiblehealth.org/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://possiblehealth.org/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874285000&amp;usg=AOvVaw2uxxH-GIR4y6Vtn4zPKdmr">Possible</a>, a nonprofit organization that has been working to improve health care in Nepal since 2007.<a href="https://twitter.com/BibhavAcharya" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://twitter.com/BibhavAcharya&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1645761874285000&amp;usg=AOvVaw2b7VkvX7y7Myrrsnt6EM7o">@BibhavAcharya</a> <img width="77" height="109" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101124/63720a199c7e80680e0b5581jpeg.jpg" alt="">Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/at-the-covid-19-frontlines-in-rural-nepal/"> At the Covid frontlines in rural Nepal</a>, Priti Thapa

Paul Farmer on my mind

<figure><img width="2082" height="1266" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141132/636cfdb69c7e80680e0a0bfdjpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>The newly developed ayurvedic 'centre of excellence' is nestled beneath the forests of Nagarjun, just half an hour from Kathmandu. The centre is a legacy of ayurvedic doctor Rishi Ram Koirala who passed away last week.</figcaption></figure>I had an appointment with Rishi Ram Koirala the day before he suffered his fatal heart attack. Last week Nepal has lost one of its most celebrated ayurvedic practitioners, the founder and medical director of the renowned <a href="http://The newly developed ayurvedic 'centre of excellence' is nestled beneath the forests of Nagarjun, just half an hour from Kathmandu. The centre is a legacy of ayurvedic doctor Rishi Ram Koirala who passed away last week." target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Ayurveda Health Home</a>.
It was a fortuitous blessing that I was able to see him one last time, taking a friend for a consultation. Whilst we sipped glasses of tulsi tea in the clinic’s waiting area heavy with the scent of oil and powder, I struggled to find any bone fide complaints to waste his precious time.
Dr Rishi’s kind brown eyes seemed to sparkle with health. “It’s been years,” he greeted me. Wearing a voluminous green gown, blue hair net, surgical gloves, double masks and a face shield, the eyes were all I could see of his slight, sprightly figure. But enthusiasm and gentle wisdom shone through the clear plastic sheet.
“You are lucky to be so healthy at your age.” I muttered something about preferring to lose some weight and could feel his dismissive hidden humour: “It must be your inner nature. How are <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/dads-deception/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Tenzin and the boys</a>?” We caught up with family news and updates on his practice. I wish now the I had thought to ask him how he was.
Dr Rishi took my pulse in his little office across the courtyard of the Dhapasi clinic, flanked by two of his junior doctors similarly adorned in full PPE, learning skills from the master. On the walls were colourful renditions of the naked body showing ancient pressure points, chakras and energy channels. Stacked on shelves were rows of red-topped glass jars containing mysterious medicines of essential natural ingredients, herbs, tablets and dried plants.
“I’ve been busy, still lecturing all over the world via Zoom, and I’ve just submitted a paper on ayurvedic policy for the National Planning Commission and Ministry of Health.” His eyes sparkled. 
“And we are now producing our own medicines from home-grown herbs and plants on our land beyond Nagarjun. We are expanding our factory to process these, taking advantage of the government restrictions on importing pharmaceuticals and trying to break the stranglehold of the cartels exporting all <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-grass-is-greener-in-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal’s best medicinal plants</a> to India.”
Dr Rishi’s reputation as a skilled and compassionate doctor, ayurvedic master and yogic practitioner with three decades of experience, extends across the globe. With degrees from Banaras and Kathmandu, his <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/the-return-of-the-baidyas,1623" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">ayurvedic expertise</a> was based on nearly 12 years of intensive studies. 
I ask about Covid-19, and Dr Rishi explains that ayurvedic remedies are particularly effective in its prevention, building up the body’s immunity, and to restore strength during the recovery period. Their 12 doctors and over 30 professionals do not provide healthcare for infectious diseases.
First established in 1995, the Dhapasi clinic was expanded in 2001 as a joint venture with Marilies Foerster, a German nurse who Dr Rishi describes as “our sister”. The extensive family partnership is anchored by Badri Koirala his younger brother, and their sons and daughters, some of whom have enriched the enterprise by combining conventional western medical qualifications with their knowledge of traditional techniques.
Dr Rishi and his family’s pioneering <a href="http://ayurvedacenternepal.com" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">panchakarma centre</a> in Nepal is unique in South Asia. Considered to be the essence of ayurveda, panchkarma is a holistic process designed for maintaining and supporting inner harmony. Consisting of cleansing, detoxifying, immune-enhancing, rejuvenating, and curative measures against disease, it restores harmony and balance to the mind, emotions and senses. Treatment programmes impart the benefits of pure natural products and holistic healing techniques developed from the subtle ancient knowledge of the Vedas.
Many foreigners and Nepalis have benefitted over the years with courses of therapy prescribed by Dr Rishi’s team of devoted trained professionals. Pre-pandemic groups of Europeans and Americans would arrive with a range of ailments, often staying for several weeks at a time. 
“Foreigners of 122 nations have taken our services, including high-ranking officials from Russia and the Middle East,” he said.
In anticipation of the return of this loyal international following, the Ayurvedic Health Resort is being developed as an ‘ayurvedic centre of excellence’ on a forested slope behind Nagarjun. Bordering on the national park and community forest, this sylvan retreat consists of a hotel of 28 rooms with wholesome vegetarian food and dedicated space for treatments, teachings, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/yoga-in-the-time-of-covid-19/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">meditation and yoga</a>. 
Nurseries and flower beds cultivate the finest quality herbal plants, and a production unit processes oils, potions and remedies according to the most efficacious medical tradition.
Huge picture windows at the comfortable new Nagarjun centre overlook the dense green cradle of forest that reverberates with life, birds call during the day and insects by night. An unseen river gurgles below the steep drop off below my balcony, and the occasional aircraft passes overhead. 
During our monsoon visit mists threaded the valleys, tendrils of clouds draped the hilltops and rain hammered the roof. Badri explains the building reflects the principles of vastu shastras, and it exudes peace and serenity from the moment we arrive. The weekend prescription plan of curative activities includes abhyanga massages, body scrubs, steam chambers, the oil flow of shirodhara and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/reclaiming-singing-bowls/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Himalayan singing bowl</a> therapy.
Kathmandu Valley is a spiritual melting pot of great healers. From all points of the compass the ancient therapeutic traditions converge in the shadow of the Himalaya – Ayurveda from India, Tibetan and Chinese. Some practitioners are a well-kept secret, revealing themselves only when necessary and only to those in need.
Rishi Ram Koirala was a quiet modest man, but his <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=10642#.YSHLzi2B2fQ" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">healing skills</a>, diagnostic expertise and extraordinary knowledge were widely respected throughout the world. His legacy will live on with the Ayurvedic Health Resort enterprise, but he himself will be sorely missed by many.

Lisa Choegyal

The good doctor

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141128/636cfcf99c7e80680e0a0bbajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2212" height="1368"/><figcaption>RajKumar Shakya with a model of the Bhairab under construction at the southern edge of kathmandu. Photo: NEPAL ART VILLAGE</figcaption></figure>Raj Kumar Shakya who died of Covid-related complications in June at age 54 was <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=15838&amp;fbclid=IwAR08cUD5kjOEeKVekuAE_IXLtXzZbV--CuvbZzBPksyH9KeKN_tS2-ta3xY#.YRXm0S8w3u1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the world’s foremost repoussé sculptors</a>, excelling in the craft of preserving traditonal methods of forging malleable metal sheets into devotional art objectsHaving met, known, and worked with Raj Kumar for nearly three decades, his short life is a lesson on what it takes to be a successful artist. This was a tragic loss to Nepal, and to the world, where his work is on display from Bhutan to Japan, from Shanghai to Munich.Raj Kumar was passionate about his art and craft, and set big goals. When it came to any assignment, no matter what the size or scale, Raj Kumar knew he could do it. He came across as supremely confident about his abilities, and there were few tasks that he could not fulfil.But he was also realistic, and knew his own capacity. However, he was always eager to take it to the next level to test his own limits. The colossal statue of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/page/nepali-craftsmen-build-biggest-padmasambhavan-statue-in-bhutan?fbclid=IwAR0Gq5QRh25Gb3biTmwiBC0dLt5WhMX9fl4CVhtIp_L2Tm5Z0n9Ya58qvzo" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Guru Padmasambhava that Raj Kumar built in Bumthang of Bhutan</a> will stand as a testament to his talent as an artist and, yes, even his engineering and logistical expertise.Comparable in size and scope to the Statue of Liberty in New York, the Padmasambhava in Bhutan is also made from the repoussé method that Raj Kumar had perfected and scaled up during his short working life.<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/rebuilding-temples-a-chance-to-creat-jobs-and-to-revive-woodcarving-industry%20,2347">Carving out a niche</a>, Sonia Awale<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141128/636cfcfc9c7e80680e0a0bbbjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="750" height="500"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Raj Kumar succeeded because he had the passion, and he believed in himself. The time and effort it took to craft each of the masterpieces the artist has gifted to the world did not matter to him, because he loved what he did. He was dedicated to promoting and preserving the repoussé art form, and all the skills and techniques that went with it. The most important lesson of his life is that we must not be afraid to set big goals.Raj Kumar’s art did not exist in a vacuum. He was rooted in the community, and articulated his craft through traditional art of the Kathmandu Valley. He learnt from countries like South Korea and Japan that in any major project, human resource is the most valuable -- and the biggest variable.Therefore, he was always on the lookout for skilled people like himself, or <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/modern-day-arniko/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">young passionate artisans </a>whom he knew he could train. He inducted them into his team and then painstakingly and generously shared his knowledges and skills with them.For this, he knew trust was essential. It was this mutual trust that he was able to expand his work into the larger community, and the community reciprocated that trust and respect. Raj Kumar was always at the forefront, engaged in many community events, speaking there about the need to preserve tradition. He spoke clearly and persuasively, putting out his ideas as any good communicator.<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/coming-out-of-the-woodwork/">Coming out of the woodwork</a>, Kunda DixitRaj Kumar Shakya was also a mentor, and this is his most important legacy – ensuring that his knowledge and skills were passed on to the next generation. He was worried that there were too few families left in Kathmandu carrying on the repoussé tradition. <figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141128/636cfcfe9c7e80680e0a0bbcjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="750" height="500"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>It is Raj Kumar’s efforts in the past 30 years that has revived the skills and talent not just to Patan, but to Nepal and beyond to the world.A whole new generation of successful artists in Patan have benefitted from working with Raj Kumar, where they started from scratch, making mistakes and learning along the way, under the watchful eyes of the master.As more and more work was generated, more young people returned to their <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/featured-videos/out-with-the-old-in-with-the-new/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">traditional craftmanship</a>. With economic growth in Asia and greater understanding of Buddhism and its significance, the demand for these skills will grow.Raj Kumar understood and applied science, technology and geometry to his work. The ability to open minds to new and relevant information, new tools, and techniques and to constantly be learning are the key characteristics of a successful person.Raj Kumar was one of the early users of computers in his work, employing CAD and mixing the latest technology to refine traditional craftsmanship. He insisted that his colleagues and protégé learn the science, be good with numbers – and he practiced what he taught.He could generate 3-D computer models of whatever he was working on, and use these perspectives also to teach. He felt that art made without perfect mathematical proportions did not do well in the market. This ability and dedication to combine the best of modern applied science with traditional art is what made his creations so successful. And once his work was scaled to large sculptures, these architectural and engineering calculations mattered more than ever.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141128/636cfd019c7e80680e0a0bbdjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="473" height="577"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Most artists do not know much about business, and some are even proud of the fact. The history of art is replete with geniuses who died paupers, and whose works today fetch millions of dollars in auctions.Not Raj Kumar. He was a good businessman, with a sense of the art market and knew how to promote his work. He had built a large network of suppliers, shippers and skilled workers who he could mobilise. He was good at raising money for large work, and sometimes invested his own earnings well – and this allowed his firm (<a href="http://onmetalart.com/menu/view/21" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">On Metal</a>) to expand. Many artists and smaller businesses benefitted from On Metal contracts.After finishing his famous Bhutan statue in Bhutan, Raj Kumar was working on other large orders when he died: a large Buddha statue in Lumbini, restoration work at Mahabouddha, and he had taken up his dream project of putting up the largest and tallest mask of the Bhairab at the southern edge of the Kathmandu Valley in the <a href="https://www.nepalartvillage.com" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal Art Village</a> (NAV).If we really want to honour the legacy of Raj Kumar Shakya, his life and work this project must be completed. Fortunately, he leaves behind a new crop of traditional artists to carry on his work.Read also:  <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=37788&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Crafting a heritage,</a> Shriluna Shrestha

Anil Chitrakar

Rajkumar Shakya, 1967-2021

<figure><img width="1142" height="787" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111128/636cd31d9c7e80680e08f94ejpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Manoj Basnyat in his New York office with MP Man Bahadur Gurung (left) and Hum Gurung (right) in 2014.</figcaption></figure>To be posted in regions of political instability seems to have been the calling of Manoj Basnyat’s life. As a United Nations representative, he was sent to all the major hotspots: Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Ukraine.After serving the UN in Nepal from 1994-99 he left just as the country itself was turning into a hotspot. Manoj travelled and lived as a citizen of the world, working for the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) for more than 27 years.He died in New York on 12 January, his sudden demise leaving his friends, colleagues and relatives, in shock. Many will remember him for being a catalyst for conservation in Nepal, and for development and peace-building around the world. He changed many lives for the better, and inspired a new generation of those working to balance economic progress and ecological protection.  As Assistant Resident Representative of UNDP in Kathmandu, Manoj’s focus was on governance, infrastructure and natural resources. He believed in the Japanese way of nemawashi 根回し, an informal process of convincing and gaining the support of communities for positive change. He used this approach for change, wherever he went. <img width="536" height="586" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111132/636cd3209c7e80680e08f94fjpeg.jpg" alt="">As a conservationist trying to convince communities to take ownership and participate, Manoj's mentorship in Nepal was a lifelong gift for me. He was generous with sharing practical tips on communicating with politicians and bureaucrats, which is perhaps one of the most essential skills at senior management positions. For many like me he was a role model ‘adviser’, with the ability to influence decision-makers, thereby impacting policies at all levels. The relationship he maintained with senior politicians in Kathmandu ran a parallel at the grassroots. He maintained excellent relations with village leaders, locally elected representatives and listened to them intently during meetings, which made them seek his advice on major development activities.My connection with Manoj Basnyat started in December 1996 when I joined UNDP in Kathmandu as Senior Policy Adviser. It was impossible to not be touched by Manoj Basnyat’s optimism and can-do attitude. <figure><img width="2032" height="1337" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111132/636cd3249c7e80680e08f950jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>UNDP Resident Representative to Nepal Carroll Long on a field visit to Butwal in 1996 with Manoj Basnyat.</figcaption></figure>He took this positive, practical approach to ideas and their execution to the countries he was assigned to for UNDP. Between 2001-2005, Manoj was the Deputy Resident Representative of UNDP in the Ukraine and assisted in the delivery of development assistance as its Country Programme Director. His fluency in Russian helped him in his Eastern Europe postings.Prior to that, he served as the Policy Specialist and Deputy Regional Manager for the Sub-regional Resource Facility in UNDP’s Regional Center in Bratislava (1999 – 2001). This was a crucial time to be in Slovakia, as the country was having presidential elections  for the first time following a constitutional amendment in 1998.He also served with UNDP’s Regional Centre in Colombo from 2005– 2006 at a time of the fiercest fighting between the Sri Lankan military and Tamil separatists. He went on to Dhaka to serve as UNDP Resident Coordinator from 2006 to 2008, planning and delivering strategies built around successful partnerships.Then, it was to another hotspot: Afghanistan, where he served as UNDP’s Country Director (2008-2012), working to help the country recover from decades of war. Attacks were frequent, and Manoj had to often duck into bunker safe rooms in between meetings about development projects. <figure><img width="636" height="420" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111132/636cd3279c7e80680e08f951jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Former President of Afghanistan Professor Rabbani and Minister Masoom Stanikzai with Manoj Basnyat in Kabul.</figcaption></figure>From his childhood at St Xavier's School in Kathmandu to college at the Kuban State Technological University in Russia where he did his science Masters, Manoj lived like an explorer—of life and places. He went on to attend Universität Dortmund in Germany to do a post-graduate in Regional Development Planning and Management. He also spent time at the Asian Institute of Technology in  Thailand and the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard where he did a degree in leadership. My last meeting with Manoj was in September 2014 at his office in New York in the company of our acquaintance Man Bahadur Gurung, the erstwhile Chair of the Conservation Area Management Committee of Parche in Kaski. The Gurung community from Sikles had just won the internationally renowned UNDP Equator Prize for nature conservation and sustainable local development.  We presented Manoj with the coffee table book, <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18160#.YAj4BnYzaUk" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D18160%23.YAj4BnYzaUk&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1611287597946000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGiA5owFh8gA6yJm9O6poulRIDe9w">Our Village, Our Life: Sikles in Focus</a>, by  Sara Parker. As he flipped through the pages of the book, he said: “I really miss our mountains and plains, our new forests, and the hopes and potentials of rural Nepal.”  Hum Gurung, PhD, is Regional Project Manager for BirdLife International-led Forest Governance in Southeast Asia and Pacific.

A Nepali on a UN mission

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be2099c7e80680e083e84jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="900"/><figcaption>Writer, reporter, historian, traveller, and trans pioneer, Jan Morris died on 20 Nov 2020.</figcaption></figure>The last surviving foreign member of the first victorious Everest expedition died at the ripe age of 94 just prior to midday on 20 November 2020 at her home in North Wales.Jan Morris was unrecognisable from the heavily bearded, Oxford educated, ex-army journalist who strode across Advanced Base Camp for a congratulatory handshake in a typically British fashion with the triumphant Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay Sherpa. Now, only <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-last-of-the-first/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-last-of-the-first/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371855000&amp;usg=AOvVaw0ZjG0jFRKS-K47F5yeXUEC">Kancha Sherpa</a> from Namche is still with us from the historic 1953 British team.With an exclusive commission from The Times of London, James Morris was embedded as a member of the John Hunt-led expedition, but never ventured far up the mountain on his arduous assignment.‘I was no climber, was not particularly interested in mountaineering. I was there merely as a reporter.’ Terrified that someone might leak the glorious news of the first ascent, his Base Camp message was concealed in a pre-arranged code carried by Sherpa runners then telegraphed from the British Embassy in Kathmandu: ‘Snow conditions bad stop advanced base abandoned yesterday stop awaiting improvement.’Back in The Times’ newsroom, they knew what he meant and the glad tidings ricocheted around the globe on the auspicious morning of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation. The world's highest mountain had been conquered, Sir Ed was knighted and Tenzing Norgay put Nepal firmly on the map. For the first time the Sherpa name resonated worldwide, just as the hidden kingdom of Nepal was unlocking its secrets and beginning to allow foreign visitors.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be20c9c7e80680e083e85jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1594" height="854"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>At the time of his Sagarmatha scoop, James Morris was already happily married to Elizabeth Tuckniss, daughter of a tea planter who both confirmed mutual love at first sight. Their 70-year love story would produce five children, including their son the poet musician Twm Morys, and the partnership survived the death of an infant and James’ transition into a woman.Elizabeth said: ‘I never stopped loving James or Jan. It did not make any difference to me. We still had our family. We just carried on.’ Forced to divorce, they remained together in a ‘civil union’.Author of over fifty books including British histories, an empire trilogy, travelogues and personal reminiscences, the irrepressible and articulate Jan Morris transitioned from James during the unsympathetic 1970s.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be20f9c7e80680e083e86jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="438" height="570"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>An ostensibly highly successful man’s man, he had in fact felt all his conscious life that at heart he was female. Her ground-breaking memoir Conundrum, written 46 years ago about risky and experimental surgery, is an elegant classic of the gender genre and still in print, a slender volume that poetically and comprehensively addresses today’s transsexuality debate.Reflecting on her transition, Jan said: ‘I would never use the word change, as in “sex change” for what happened to me. I did not change sex, I really absorbed one into the other. I’m a bit of each now. I freely admit it.’I was delighted to be introduced by London publishing connections to this highly accomplished, cerebral and exciting writer during our 1973 research on Marco Polo -- I had wangled my way as the only female member of a <a href="http://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/so-far-so-good/marco-polo-the-film-that-was-never-made/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/so-far-so-good/marco-polo-the-film-that-was-never-made/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371855000&amp;usg=AOvVaw31CG7tk4VmTthyAGf8uV1N">British film team driving overland from Venice to Central Asia</a>.A daring reporter and tireless traveller who had crossed deserts and scaled mountains, her gender transition the previous year was not our focus. We consulted Jan Morris about our route and particularly the intricate details of ancient Venice, one of her most popular books and home to Marco Polo, the peripatetic 13th century trader whose travels about journeys to China had first revealed the orient to avid European readers. I remember Jan as strong, straightforward, enthusiastic and helpful, lots of hair and heavy jewellery.Baring her soul, Conundrum was published the following year in 1974. In response to my no doubt naïve gushing fan letter about the book’s profound effect, admiration of her bravery and reminder of our Marco Polo meeting, Jan’s hand-written postcard to me arrived dated 30 October 1974 from their home in Bath.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be2119c7e80680e083e87jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1996" height="1302"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Recently I retrieved her card during a Covid clear out, a precious reminder of a long-gone encounter, although the casual multiplicity of our respective travels struck me as completely extraordinary in these static times. Despite the sentiments in her card, Jan and I did not meet up on her return from ‘S Africa and Australia in the New Year’. I had already returned to Nepal, and stayed.The next and last time that I would meet Jan Morris was at <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/funeral-of-Sir-Edmund-Hillary,1100" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/funeral-of-Sir-Edmund-Hillary,1100&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371856000&amp;usg=AOvVaw17BOc90QU0k2a1V9c_Xw3Y">Sir Edmund Hillary’s funeral</a> in 2008. In the well-kept hallowed grounds of Auckland’s Government House, the great and the good of New Zealand and world mountaineering were gathered to mourn the national hero’s passing.Under the spreading trees of the gently sloping garden, the sun shone weakly on the Governor General’s reception that followed a rare state funeral in the cathedral, led by <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/edmund-hillary-funeral,1127" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/edmund-hillary-funeral,1127&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371856000&amp;usg=AOvVaw1cRWCU9029-2B2EPtHnCpV">Prime Minister Helen Clark</a>. Jan attended as a government guest along with the bare handful of surviving 1953 members.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181120/636be2149c7e80680e083e88jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1660" height="1114"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>I was there with <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/elizabeth-hawley-1923-2018/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/elizabeth-hawley-1923-2018/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1606094371856000&amp;usg=AOvVaw1QR7Xpp0vNKIx7DD5gjroj">Elizabeth Hawley</a> and the five officiating Sherpa leaders, although by the time we arrived from the crematorium the shadows were lengthening and the crowd was thinning. The day before we had been sitting with the family around Lady June’s Remuera kitchen table when Jan arrived down the carpeted staircase directly from her London flight, a booming presence bearing flowers, slightly awkward and wonderfully untidy with wild white hair and another chunky necklace.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQGZ_4fXoFc&amp;fbclid=IwAR0rRARNossXocDp4FzGh13ir7Ox14oAlRwUSznAUsCn0sm6rgH9dPh8RuMJan Morris, legendary travel writer, met in conversation with Recce editor Don George on May 8, 2013, at the New York Times Center in Manhattan. A prolific and eclectic writer, in her 2018 ‘thought diary’ In My Mind’s Eye, Jan explained that her daily exercise was a thousand steps a day down the narrow green Welsh lanes lined with stone walls with distant views of the sea. ‘The thousand paces is my self-imposed basic discipline, rain, shine or earthquake,’ she wrote. As I trudged in dutiful circles during the worst of the lockdown, I remembered her regimen.Jan Morris has reached the end of her ‘tangled life’ and set off on her greatest journey. But even in death she plans never to be separated from Elizabeth, the love of her life. When buried together on a small island on the River Dwyfor, their headstone will read: 'Here are two friends, at the end of one life.'

A postcard from Jan Morris 1926-2020

<figure><img width="1500" height="1062" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915118/636bb5129c7e80680e07bbe0jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Ted and Bruce in Deopatan in July 3, 1983. Photo: DAVID SASSOON</figcaption></figure><a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=11692" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D11692&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600528481773000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHd1Ez2Yig2Qvc4dLCfYkKCP82wuQ">Ted Riccardi</a> often recounted the story of turning his attention to Nepal, and pursuing the career that followed as a series of fortunate accidents. Disappointed with his chosen field of study in law, a chance encounter with a teacher from his high school ultimately led him to become the prominent scholar of Nepal that he was. Though it was my first trip to Nepal that shifted my attention from Latin America to the Kathmandu Valley, I am somewhat embarrassed to acknowledge that it was by accident that I happened to meet Ted, who ultimately made my studies there and so much more possible. I received the letter informing me of my acceptance into the graduate program in anthropology at Columbia University while visiting Kathmandu as a backpacking tourist. Presumably I was accepted, at least in part, on the basis of my proposal to pursue applied anthropology in Latin America. But by the time I accepted their offer to join the program, my heart and mind were set on conducting research in Nepal. It was only through a chance perusal through the ‘Ns’ in the course catalogue after arriving at Columbia that I discovered Nepali was being offered there by one Professor Riccardi, who was oddly ensconced in the Department of Middle Eastern Languages and Cultures. I immediately went to his office in Kent Hall and asked if I could study with him. He seemed a bit surprised and inquired about the basis of my interest, and, perhaps detecting that I was afflicted with a nascent love of Nepal that he thought would grow with proper feeding, he allowed me to join Bill Fisher in the one Nepali class he was teaching at the time, even though Bill had started the year before.  <figure><img width="1500" height="1189" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915118/636bb5169c7e80680e07bbe1jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Ted Riccardi, March 1987. Photo: DAVID SASSOON</figcaption></figure>I am sure Bill was a bit dismayed at my joining the class as a neophyte, but he seems to have gotten over it, and has become one of my dearest friends: another of the countless gifts Ted has bestowed upon me.To teach me Nepali was an enormous gift, all the more so because of Ted’s stunning proficiency in it. While doing my doctoral research in the early ’80s, I once returned to my apartment in Patan to be greeted by the son of my landlord with a note. When I discovered that it was from Ted, I excitedly told him that it was from my guru, and he asked, “Is he Nepali?”Clearly the young boy was experiencing cognitive dissonance, Ted’s appearance not being consistent with his speech, but his speech being without accent, and so fluent that only his being Nepali could account for it. I often think of how torturous it must have been for someone so gifted as he to attempt to impart his knowledge to the likes of me. Even though his Nepali was better than that of many Nepalis, partly due to a series of fortuitous events in his own life (see Don Messerschmidts’ <a href="http://ecs.com.np/features/ted-riccardi-a-scholar-among-us" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://ecs.com.np/features/ted-riccardi-a-scholar-among-us&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600528481773000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFRQVntyrRiLgtJg6e7_RB8R5hCxg">article in ECS</a> from July of 2010), Ted insisted that his students also work with a native speaker from Nepal. And so it was that Kanak Mani Dixit came into my life, as he was at Columbia studying journalism at the time: another gift beyond measure.The point of these stories, which may seem to focus overly on me, is that Ted was extraordinarily generous with his knowledge, patience, and time. He was also generous in sharing his many friendships and connections with people in Nepal. It was through him that I also came to know Mohan Khanal, Prayag Raj Sharma, and Dor Bahadur Bista before I ever went to Nepal to do my research, all of whom came to New York through his efforts. Once in Nepal, the mention of his name inevitably brought smiles, inquiries about his welfare, and generous hospitality. <img width="300" height="353" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110915118/636bb5199c7e80680e07bbe2jpeg.jpg" alt="">It was from Ted’s house in New Delhi, where he was cultural attaché at the time, that I launched my doctoral research in Nepal. It was only with his support that I was able to pursue my research in Nepal for nearly three years, and only with his patient encouragement that I was able to complete my dissertation four years later. The most generous among us do not draw attention to their generosity, but rather somehow allow one to come to expect it without realising it, and do not seek thanks for it. Though I have tried over the years to express my gratitude to Ted, in putting these words to paper I realise how futile a task that was and is.<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/A-chariot-through-time-rato-machhindranath,3354" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/A-chariot-through-time-rato-machhindranath,3354&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600528481773000&amp;usg=AFQjCNH8BSPpRT6o_QhLOYi0nkIwsd1J4A">Bruce McCoy Owens</a> is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Wheaton College in the United States, and has studied and documented the <a href="http://nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Red-rain-god,3141" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Red-rain-god,3141&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600528481773000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGcsAXK-5sCF3b_sIHugmEf68PA1g">Rāto Matsyendranāth</a> tradition of Kathmandu Valley.

Dhanyavād, Subhāy, Guruju

<figure><img width="1604" height="888" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914118/636ba69e9c7e80680e073733jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Madhav Prasad Ghimire 1919-2020. Illustration: BHANU BHATTARAI</figcaption></figure>When national poet laureate Madhav Prasad Ghimire died on Tuesday 18 August at the age of 101, it marked the end of an era in not just Nepali literature, but in Nepal’s nationhood.<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Class,307" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Class,307&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1597915531930000&amp;usg=AFQjCNExUAst_dTstdRKeq3qydRD79ghhA">Ghimire embodied the Nepali soul</a> in prolific poetry, many of which were rousing enough to be turned into national anthems. They resonated with love for country and its landscape, rich descriptions of mountains and valleys, rivers and forests. He wrote about the nurturing power of nature, observing and describing creation in all its spectacular glory and diversity.Born in the village of Pustun near Bahun Danda of Lamjung district, Ghimire was raised below Himalchuli, a mountain that crops up over and over again in his poetry. He grew up grazing goats in the high pastures, roamed forests picking wild berries, the hum of the Marsyangdi River constantly flowing through his mind – sadly whispering in winter, gurgling with happiness in the spring thaw, wild and angry in the monsoon.He ran away from home at age 12, stealing some money from the family coffers, so he could get a better education in Kathmandu – then known as ‘Nepal’. He got his college degree in Banaras, where many educated Nepalis sent their children in the Rana days when schooling was frowned upon by the state.Many of Ghimire’s poems have been rendered into song by Nepal’s famous musicians like Narayan Gopal and <a style="font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xt_IcS8sYfk">Ambar Gurung,</a> and his plays have been performed for decades in Nepal’s theatres. Generations of Nepali children have grown up memorising his <a style="font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfnpQX94NOY">'Gaunchha geeta Nepali...'</a>Ghimire has said he was always inspired by Nepal’s nature, and believed in its healing powers. This intimacy with the land and its inhabitants is a constant refrain in all his works. There were critics: he was deemed to be too close to the Panchayat rulers, helping Queen Aishwarya with her poetry (some say he even ghost wrote some of them), supporting King Gyanendra’s coup in 2005.Lately, some labeled him with retroactive correctness, as a proponent of a unitary Nepal. He was unapologetic about this, but also celebrated in his poetry the ethno-linguistic rainbows that make Nepal Nepal.He tread lightly through life, never taking himself too seriously, and did not have time for cynics and people with strong, too rigid, convictions. He made a distinction in his poetry between flag-waving nationalism and patriotism. And along with his deep affinity for this land, he had a special place in his heart for his birthplace in Lamjung. It became a matter of great regret for him that he could not go back more often in later years.His observational skills were phenomenal, using simple similes and rustic colloquialism to describe in the minutest detail the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OKGlnbiQ0iA">sound of night rain on blades of corn during the monsoon</a>, Himalchuli glistening like a diamond in the moonlight, clouds massing up against the dazzling Himalayan sky, the slanting golden sun after a shower.Ghimire had vowed to finish his poetry epic Ritmbhara before he died. He did indeed finish it, working on it till he became frail. The poet was cremated in the midst of a spreading pandemic on Wednesday morning. He leaves behind a rich legacy of words and music, many of which are available in reprints of his books and in songs on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WR_Z58RQiJA">YouTube channels.</a> <figure><img width="800" height="600" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914118/636ba6a19c7e80680e073734jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Madhav Prasad Ghimire with Satyamohan Joshi last year, the two Nepali centenarian littérateurs. “There is only me left,” Joshi said on Wednesday, on hearing of Ghimire’s passing.</figcaption></figure>One of his contemporaries and fellow centenarian is Satyamohan Joshi, who said upon learning of his friend’s passing: “There were two of us in Nepal’s literature scene who were older than 100. Now there is only me left. Maybe it is my turn next.”Ghimire wrote about death with acceptance, almost embracing it, using the power of verse to strip away the dread associated with a final departure. His poem <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSWFVJBbJJQ">Gauri, written in the traditional chhanda melody,</a> is a melancholic masterpiece about losing his first wife. One of his most famous poems is about dreaming that he was dead, and which was later turned into <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=00FNkUH6Srk">a popular song by Narayan Gopal.</a>As death approached in recent years, he wrote openly about his own impending demise and about how he wanted to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zzox7qtB_3o">pass on like the night jasmine</a>, silently falling from the tree in the morning to spread its scent among those left behind. <img width="2000" height="1333" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914118/636ba6a39c7e80680e073735jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figure><img width="2000" height="1333" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914118/636ba6a69c7e80680e073736jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>               Madhav Prasad Ghimire was cremated with state honours at Pashupati on Wednesday morning.

Poet of the Nepali soul

<img width="1000" height="500" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b74059c7e80680e06236ejpeg.jpg" alt=""/>The careers of many journalists of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=6041#.XjzSCi2B3-Y" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Durganath Sharma</a>'s generation spanned the technology transition. We started out as reporters in the age of cold type and letter press, graduated to Linotype, then in the 1980s came photocomposition and offset printing, after that we got rid of film and went straight from computer to plate, and now there are digital presses. Us reporters filed our stories by postal mail, dictated them on landline phones, telex machines, fax, dialup, and finally email and internet apps. We saw our stories being laid out with photographs in zinc blocks. Durganath Sharma, who died at age 72 on Wednesday in Kathmandu, was a celebrated and celebrity <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=6241#.XjzZoS2B2t8" target="_blank" rel="noopener">television journalist</a>. But he started out in Gorkhapatra in the age of the letter press. He went on to the broadcast studio and his “Yo <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/nepali-radio-nepali-awaj,3728" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Radio Nepal</a> ho. Aba Durganath Sharma bata samachar sunnuhos” was the most recognised voice across Nepal as he read the morning news on the short and medium wave bands. <img width="640" height="500" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b74079c7e80680e06236fjpeg.jpg" alt=""><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b740a9c7e80680e062370jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1184" height="284"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b740c9c7e80680e062371jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1184" height="622"> <img width="640" height="454" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b740f9c7e80680e062372jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="640" height="453" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b74119c7e80680e062373jpeg.jpg" alt="">Later, when Nepal Television started relatively late in the 1984, he was the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=3591#.XjzSEC2B3-Y" target="_blank" rel="noopener">chief news anchor</a> and set the standard for camera presence and audience connection. The joke then was that he should say “Aba Durganath Sharma bata samachar hernuhos”. Durganath Sharma travelled across Nepal, often accompanying King Birendra on his annual inspections of development in remote areas. Because of his frequent reportage from the field, close friends had given him a moniker ‘Durgam Kshetra’ (Remote Area) by playing on his name. But even in radio, Sharma presided over a rapidly changing technology from analog shortwave, to AM (amplitude modulation) and witnessed the spread of FM (frequency modulation) and finally satellite radio and digital broadcasting. He worked through the evolution of television technology from the age of video parlours to terrestrial broadcasting, and on to cable to direct to home dish. From cameras that were so large and heavy they had to rest on burly shoulders to the Sony Handycam and finally mobile phones that could take videos.   <img width="602" height="1122" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b74149c7e80680e062374jpeg.jpg" alt="">Durganath Sharma was the screen persona telling Nepal what was happening around the world. This was the age of Panchayat, so domestic news had to be taken with a pinch of salt. The democrat in Durganath Sharma valued the freedom of press, but it was just a job. He later used his reach on Nepal Television to start Biswa Ghatana (World Events) program that catapulted him to stardom.In the age before Twitter provided instantaneous notifications about what is going on, Biswa Ghatana became a window on the world for a whole generation of Nepalis. As anchor, he did not just list the news line-up but also explain the background and context that drove events like the Israel-Palestine conflict, Chernobyl, Security Council debates and the fall of the Berlin Wall. <img width="640" height="403" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b74169c7e80680e062375jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="640" height="558" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109101132/636b74199c7e80680e062376jpeg.jpg" alt="">In later years he taught media studies and penned several handbooks for journalists. He had a bypass surgery 15 years ago, but continued to teach and write columns in Kathmandu newspapers. He died of cardiac complications on Tuesday, and with him we lose a media practitioner with institutional memory of Nepal’s political transitions and the evolution of information technology over the past decades.

obituary