Every year, Chandra Prasad Adhikari suffered losses on his farm. For years, his tomato crop did not earn enough to sustain itself.&nbsp; In 1988, he even brought in agronomists to test the soil, and planted new varieties. The batch sprouted upwards within a month only to be wiped out by cotton bollworms when it was time for harvest. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/my-children-shouldnt-be-farmers">"My children shouldn't be farmers,"</a> Anita Bhetwal Frustrated, Adhikari used the chemical pesticide democrene to kill the bugs under the recommendation of an entomologist. That too failed, as the bugs were immune to the pesticide. “I was tired to the point where I wanted to give up agriculture,” recalls Adhikari. Then the entomologist, Phanindra Neupane, a professor at Rampur Campus, suggested switching to organic farming. Adhikari’s father Badrinath had also previously practiced organic farming and his 2.5-hectare farm had produced maximum yield. “My father never used chemical fertilisers. When the extension workers came to the village to promote urea, he sent them away saying our cattle manure was enough to give good crops,” recalls Adhikari who then took to organic approach, especially after finding out that chemicals had hardened the soil and reduced fertility.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023040312044_569a0c7f3604705a82c5520bf598a9117da7d7a7d1ec41a43c2638c4005a2cd8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2023040312044_569a0c7f3604705a82c5520bf598a9117da7d7a7d1ec41a43c2638c4005a2cd8" data-rendition-name="original" width="800" height="423" loading="lazy" alt="organic farming in Nepal"> <figcaption>Chandra Adhikari showing vermicompost production. All photos: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  Adhikari improved the cowshed, collected dung and used it in the farm. The results were not instantaneous. It took time for the organic methods to reverse the damage caused by years of agro-chemical abuse. He also joined the group Digo Krishi Society and Bhakaro Reform Program. By 1993, Adhikari’s investment had paid off. His carrot plantation was especially successful for which he credits Bhakaro Reform Program that taught him various techniques of making organic fertilisers. In the subsequent years, his farm produced more crops than his neighbours' that used chemical fertilisers.&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/biodynamic-agripreneurs">Biodynamic agripreneurs</a>, Sanjib Chaudhary Soon, he had people coming to him to learn about organic farming, including students from Rampur Campus. At a training program on organic agriculture in Kathmandu, Adhikari met Neupane once again. He gave him books on managing pests and manure via organic methods. It was after reading those books that Adhikari realised the real meaning of organic farming – one that is done without harming the environment and through the use of local resources and skills. “I started preparing fertilisers at home. The best ones were made by farming earthworms,” says Adhikari. “My method of farming organically was also recognised by the government following a soil test from the Nepal Institute of Science and Technology.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023040312044_5a390b9cb2cf6ea2ca8bcd94b86bc787a29aedc2624fa490ae735e24bf90b6b9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="2023040312044_5a390b9cb2cf6ea2ca8bcd94b86bc787a29aedc2624fa490ae735e24bf90b6b9" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="organic farming in Nepal"> <figcaption>Chandra Adhikari harvesting honey.</figcaption> </figure>  Next, Adhikari stopped planting the crops in favour of sunflower oil seeds which is financially more beneficial, but by then he was running his farm just on insects and home-made pesticides. “My income has doubled since going organic and making my own pesticides.” Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/waste-to-value-with-biogas-in-nepal">Waste to value with biogas in Nepal</a> Adhikari also established an organic agriculture cooperative in 2013 which now serves as a learning centre for 230 farmers. For someone who was once on the verge of leaving farming, he is now known as ‘Organic Uncle’ for influencing many towards soil conservation. And for the past 13 years, Adhikari has also been involved in collecting rice seeds for future use. So far, he has collected 110 varieties which he has submitted to the National Gene Bank in Kathmandu.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023040312040_3abd0d0ab8560cd632b833b43ab8442a4d3d38ef4d196c5d165f37b5e5dd697e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="2023040312040_3abd0d0ab8560cd632b833b43ab8442a4d3d38ef4d196c5d165f37b5e5dd697e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="organic farming in Nepal"> </figure>  “Rice varieties have been disappearing for generations,” says Adhikari. “Just as powerful nations have taken hold of fertilisers and various seeds, Nepal should be self-sufficient when it comes to rice seeds.” Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/corruption-and-nepal-s-chronic-fertiliser-crisis">Corruption and Nepal's chronic fertiliser crisis</a> After 35 years of organic farming, Adhikari sayslike how healthy mothers give birth to healthy babies, we need chemical-free soil for a good yield, which in turn is crucial for healthy living.&nbsp; Says Adhikari: “Organic farming needs patience, especially to revert all the damages previously done to the soil by chemicals. After that, there is nothing but prosperity for the farmers, there is no loss, and they are also healthier not having to handle all those toxins.”&nbsp;

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The ‘Organic Uncle’ of Chitwan

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150232/63fe10729c7e80680e0da499jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"/><figcaption>Biodynamic compost made from cattle dung but adds the horns of dead livestock to enrich nutrients in the fertiliser. Photos: SUDARSHAN CHAUDHARY</figcaption></figure>Across Nepal, the organic matter content of the soil is falling due to erratic weather, poor farming practices and overuse of agro-chemicals. Ideally, a farm should have 5% organic content in the soil, but in most places it has fallen to less than 2%.Spiral Farm House near the small town of Mahuli in Saptari district in the eastern Tarai is out to reverse this trend, and has become a learning centre to revive soil fertility and improve yields.“I started this farm ten years ago for sustainable farming and conservation of soil and microorganisms,” explains Sudarshan Chaudhary of Spiral Farm House (pictured, right). “We make eight different types of biodynamic composts which not only help revive the soil but also give us wholesome food that helps maintain good health.”Chaudhary says that intensive cropping, continuous application of chemical fertilisers and pesticides, mechanised farming, among others have led to soil degradation in Nepal.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepals-spray-and-pray-approach-to-agriculture/">Nepal’s ‘spray and pray’ approach to agriculture</a>, Jayant Basnyat<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150232/63fe10769c7e80680e0da49ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1125" height="1500"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>But the composts at Spiral Farm House have been doing wonders for the farm, and Chaudhary says the nutrients in the soil are replenished organically with the compost, providing better harvests and yield.Chaudhary not only makes manure and compost from cow dung, cattle horn, bone, silica, straw, twigs, dried leaves, and plants, but also makes liquid fertiliser and biopesticide from medicinal plants and locally available materials.Biodynamic farming is a fancy name for going back to the basics of traditional farming. It emphasises the use of locally available raw material, particularly compost made from animal dung, herbs, and other raw materials, with the goal of achieving soil self-sustainability. The necessity to add extra sources of nutrients, such as cow dung, bones and straw is due to soil fertility in Nepal’s farms being sub-optimal.Due to its reliance on organic inputs for soil fertility, biodynamic farming needs a holistic approach that incorporates crop rotation, crop-livestock integration, and seasonal farming cycles.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/building-an-information-bridge-for-nepals-farmers/">Building an information bridge for Nepal’s farmers</a>, Naresh Newar<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/save-farms-empower-farmers-nepal-citizens-appeal/">Save farms, empower farmers, Nepal citizens’ appeal</a><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150232/63fe107b9c7e80680e0da49bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>In Chaudhary’s farm, cow horn manure, used for improving soil biodiversity, is made by burying fresh manure of pasture-fed cows in hollows of horns for six months. Horn silica, which is useful for plants to grow, is made from the sand buried in the horns of cattle. The other six varieties are medicinal plants used to improve the microbial population, which is necessary for soil fertility.Biodynamic farming increases crop productivity and nutritional quality while also improving soil carbon sequestration by making these soil-enriching sources available. Microbes play a major role in carbon storage in the soil.Encouraged by successful yields produced using biodynamic techniques, Chaudhary has also turned to mentoring and motivating the next generation of farmers in Saptari and surrounding districts.“I teach youth why biodynamic farming is important and why we should adopt it for sustainability,” says Chaudhary, who learned the basics of biodynamic farming during a training in 2012. Since then, he has trained more than 200 other farmers from Sunsari, Morang, Saptari, Siraha and Chitwan districts.Suman Kumari Mirdaha, a 24-year-old business management student, has been helping her parents grow rice, lentils, and vegetables after attending Chaudary’s training session on biodynamic farming and believes organic farming is the answer to the growing concerns, given the climate crisis.Sukhi Lal Chaudhary and Lalit Chaudhary, both in their 50s from Saptari district, have also learned biodynamic farming from the Spiral Farm. Sukhi Lal has been growing biodynamic vegetables which he said fetch a better price than vegetables grown using chemical fertilisers. Lalit’s farm soil quality has improved due to biodynamic techniques.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/rooftop-agriculture-on-the-roof-of-the-world/">Rooftop agriculture on the roof of the world</a>, Sonam Lama<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150232/63fe107f9c7e80680e0da49cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Despite this, the need to produce more to earn more is luring most farmers in Agnisair Krishna Sawaran Rural Municipality to increase the dose of chemical fertilisers every year, despite knowing that it is adversely affecting the soil. A 2019 survey showed that 39 of 40 farmers interviewed in the Rural Municipality used chemical fertilisers to boost production.But Sukhi Lal Chaudhary says there is no need for chemicals and he has been getting regular yields as much as what farmers using chemical fertilisers and pesticides are getting. And he is not the only one. Mahendra Kumar Shrestha from Holy Green Agro Farm says that to create a healthy eco-friendly community, he engages local farmers to switch to organic and biodynamic agriculture, as well as explore ways of achieving a sustainable and humane economy.Krishna Gurung's Kevin Rohan Memorial Eco Foundation, established in 2008 in Khokana in Kathmandu Valley, has also been  promoting biodynamic farming methods.Currently, some 5,500 farmers are practicing biodynamic farming and more than 5,000 farms covering over 400,000 acres have been certified in 60 countries across the globe.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/agroecology-nepals-answer-to-climate-change/">Agroecology, Nepal’s answer to climate change</a>, Zachary Barton<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150232/63fe10849c7e80680e0da49djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>According to a Cambridge University Press study, biodynamic farms ‘have better soil quality but lower crop yields and equal or higher net returns per hectare than conventional farming’. The study added that more research is needed to confirm the benefits of soil preparation and how it works.Biodynamic farming focuses on producing necessary manures, compost, and nutrients on its own as much as possible. However, considerably small farms need to source fodder and additional food resources for animals from outside.Biodynamic farming principles, developed by Austrian architect and social reformer Rudolf Steiner, incorporate elements of regenerative farming. But for Chaudhary, it is like returning to the farming practices of his forebears before the advent of chemical fertilisers and pesticides.Biodynamic farming also includes crop rotation and intercropping which have been practiced by farmers for generations in Nepal’s southern plains. They generally sow flaxseed and lentils in the paddy fields before the paddy starts to ripen. When it is time to harvest paddy, they already have a standing crop of flaxseed and lentils in their fields. After harvesting the flaxseed and lentils, they would prepare the land for wheat cultivation.“But climate change is resulting in unpredictable rainfall, heavy hailstorm, and random drought period occurring on a frequent basis which is affecting the overall farming and livestock rearing system,” says soil expert Sambat Ranabhat. “Biodynamic farming is a holistic approach through the integration of the different farming sectors. When climate change affects one of the components, then it will affect overall farming.”In 2022, Sudarshan Chaudhary sold his biodynamic mangoes at Rs100/kg. However, before converting into biodynamic, his mangoes fetched just Rs30-40/kg. For his biodynamic vegetables, he charges Rs5 more than the regular produce being sold in the market.“People here do not care much for organic and biodynamic products,” lamented Chaudhary. “We are planning to supply our produce to major cities, including Kathmandu where the consumers pay a premium for chemical-free produce.”The need of the moment is to expand the biodynamic practice in the country and provide the products at reasonable prices, and Nepal’s pioneering ‘agripreneurs’ like Chaudhary, Shrestha and Gurung are at the frontlines of this transformation.Reporting for this story was supported by Solutions Journalism Network through the 2022 LEDE Fellowship. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/back-to-the-future-of-farming/">Back to the future of farming</a><a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/climate-change-affects-himalayan-rice/">Climate change hits Himalayan rice</a>, Erica Wu

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Biodynamic agripreneurs

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21c19c7e80680e041756jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"/><figcaption>Ratna Rani Newar does not know how much longer she can keep her vegetable farm in Thimi. Photos: TAYLOR MASON</figcaption></figure>Ratna Rani Newar grew up helping her grandparents grow vegetables in the fertile farms <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=8688#.XC8OkdIza70">around Thimi</a>. Today, she is afraid her livelihood passed down through generations will be taken away.Kathmandu Valley civilisation was built on the agriculture that thrived in the alluvium of the former lakebed. But as the city expanded, the farms were steadily taken over by houses. Now, the last remaining tracts of what were once Thimi’s famous vegetable farms are also being filled over with concrete.“I have been growing vegetables in Thimi ever since I learnt to walk, but these days people don’t care about farming, they just want property to build houses,” said Newar, who is a single mother of four daughters. Her husband left her because she didn’t have a son.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21c49c7e80680e041757jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="999" height="1500"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Newar’s daughters, like most of the educated younger generation of Kathmandu’s agricultural families, do not want to work in farm. But they do visit their mother every Saturday, and help sell her cauliflowers and spinach in the local market.<a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/back-to-the-land">This type of farming</a> is one of the last of its kind in Kathmandu Valley: traditional, organic and hand-grown with no help from machinery. In a couple of years farmers carrying fresh vegetables in woven baskets down the streets of Bhaktapur, calling out to customers will be a rare sight.Agronomist Bhola Man Singh Basnet who used to be a scientist at the Nepal Agricultural Research Council says Kathmandu’s farmers had developed a very successful cycle using <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/organic-basnet-gundu-kheti-bazaar,2520">crop rotation</a> to replenish the nutrients in the  soil, and keep the land fertile.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21c79c7e80680e041758jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="999"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“People from all over the world noticed our techniques and productivity,” he says, “but farming is becoming obsolete.”Nepali farmers used a special technique to grow vegetables in tiny parcels of land to sustain their families. It fertilised the soil with organic black soil and cow manure, giving the Valley’s vegetables an amazing taste full on nutrients.But, Basnet says, “Land for farming is decreasing as the population increases, so new techniques are needed to meet food needs. <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/heavy-pesticide-use-and-low-consumer-awareness-affecting-public-health,1394">Chemical fertilisers</a> and green houses are being used, but the quality of these vegetables is not the same ... quality is not even considered important.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21cc9c7e80680e041759jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="999"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Basnet says the trend of building on prime agricultural land that started in Kathmandu is now spreading to other urban areas of Nepal, and younger educated people from farming families would rather work in salaried jobs.Babu Krishna is another Thimi farmer, whose children live in Australia. He says: “Farming has been in my family for generations, I have farmed all my life, but now the fields are replaced by houses. I think my generation is the last in my family that will farm.”<h2>The smart people of Piple</h2><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108101128/636a21cf9c7e80680e04175ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125">A Chitwan village has banned new construction in agricultural land Mukesh Pokhrel in ChitwanTwo years ago Mong Tamang sold 1.5 hectares of his farm. When the new owner built a road along the land to turn it into a new housing colony, local farmers were up in arms, and prevented it.Dhab Thapaliya sold half a hectare of his land to Kathmandu-based businessmen three years ago. But villagers again prevented houses being constructed, and Thapaliya had to return the advance he was paid.Today, 2,000 out of 3,500 households in Piple raise cattle and grow vegetables, and much of the credit goes to Nabaraj Onta, who returned from Korea after 25 years and put into practice what he learnt there working in a farm. He brought back seeds, and distributed it free among his fellow-villagers.“He has a vital role in encouraging us to take up farming and protect our land,” says Rameshwar Oli of the dairy cooperative in Piple which has a farmers’ savings and loans scheme providing low interest loans to farmers to buy seeds and buffaloes. All loans are paid in time, and the cooperative also has a livestock insurance scheme.Farmers in Piple village of Chitwan say their farms are much more valuable to grow vegetables and and raise livestock than to be converted into real estate, and have united to preserve cultivable land from being bought by developers for housing and factories.Unlike anywhere else in Nepal, they have enforced zoning criteria to classify farmlands and residential areas, and have prohibited buildings anywhere other than in areas along the road."Legally we can't interfere in decisions about private property, but there is an understanding among us to not sell cultivable land," explains Danda Raj Pandey one of the farmers who started the movement.It has been ten years since Piple people have turned to vegetable farming and animal husbandry, and turned their village into a model agricultural settlement.Pandey himself used to buy oranges wholesale in Dhading and Gorkha and sell it at the Kalimati market in Kathmandu. Today he sells vegetables and 15 litres of milk every day from his own village, and does not have to travel away from home for livelihood. He now makes Rs600,000 a year, and with his savings has expanded his farm so he can grow more.Moti Rijal was a daily wage worker until he started farming a small plot of his ancestral property. The farmer made more than Rs100,000 by selling just cabbages, and decided to expand into commercial farming. He has now leased more land from neighbours to grow other vegetable cash crops.Rama Dalakoti also grew beans in her small plot, and her farming is so intensive that in the last season she made Rs400,000 just from selling it in the market. Piple has now overtaken Gitanagar as the dairy capital of Chitwan, and local farmers sold Rs12 million worth of milk and supplied Rs10 million in vegetables to Kathmandu last year.

The vanishing land

We often see ourselves reflected in the other. For someone who grew up in Kathmandu Valley in the eighties and nineties, this maxim comes alive with an even greater force. Nepal’s media ecosystem was dismal, the school curriculum was narrow and did not provide opportunities for creative expression. Perhaps that is why I became obsessed with MTV videos and Bollywood films. I saw my developing self reflected in these story-lines and razzmatazz. When the media and education system do not engage the public and reflect myriad interests, aspirations and lifestyles of the population, citizens get detached and disconnected from their roots. I left for America for further studies, and was somewhat determined to never return to Nepal. It was a country full of potholes and black-outs. But foreigners have been fascinated with our country for decades. In the early 19th century, Francis Buchanan-Hamilton led a pioneering expedition and documented more than a thousand species of plants native to the region. Almost a century later, in 1905, Frenchman Sylvan Levi published ‘the first attempt to produce a comprehensive study of Nepal’, drawing on not just indigenous but available Chinese and European sources as well. After Nepal opened up in the 1950s, different kinds of foreigners have traveled here -- most notably, cold-war era spies disguised as diplomats, and later came the hippies. I returned to Nepal in 2013 and was primarily struck by two major demographics - the artists and the expats. Energised by the recent revolution, the creatives were making vibrant, powerful works. The expats, on the other hand, demonstrated a different way to navigate life in Kathmandu Valley. These two groups of people re-introduced Nepal to me and I began seeing my country and my hometown with a renewed perspective. Which is why one particular image from Giovanna Caruso’s ongoing show at the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank">Kalā</a><a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank"> Salon</a> curated by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/facades-and-flowers-from-nepal-to-italy" target="_blank">Sophia L Pandé</a> instantly caught my attention -- rather, it called out to me, as if it was composed for me, framing a key moment from my own life. Its title is, coincidentally, 2013. Like most of her other works, the pen-and-ink drawing is punctuated by an explosion of watercolour: a woman standing confidently in front of a Newa-style house, a leg arched up, as if she is fixing a strap around an ankle before stepping out on an adventure. The watercolour depicts a rainbow streaming out of a pot through a second-floor window. The rest of the details are rendered in realism – clusters of garlic and onion hanging to dry from the rafters, and further down a stack of corn. There are towels drying, even an old water pump.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="art review Kala Salon"> </figure>  When I walked over to this artwork with Caruso, she chuckled, “Ah, this work is a celebration of my 30 years in Nepal.” It was while trying to calm a restless group of students during her teaching days in Italy that Caruso first came across an iconic image of Kathmandu Darbar Square. She had found an old box of slides and while projecting images from the Himalaya to engage her students, the artist was determined to travel to Nepal. The first flat she rented was close to the square and the view from her rooftop was the same as the one she had encountered inside her classroom. She has been traveling to Nepal every year since. Some of her favourite drawings depict Khokana in morning fog. From 1993-2006, she drew murals at Ram Mandir and Pashupatinath, asking sadhus to guide her and correct her depictions. Caruso received a classical education, which means she was trained to focus on perspective and geometry while capturing mainly portraits and still lives. She is influenced by M C Escher and his explorations of mathematics and symmetry. No wonder she finds the Darbar Square architecture so compelling. She also names as inspiration Gustave Dore, whose style is different from Escher’s and I can see how she has fused these influences in her body of work: Escher’s austerity complimented and slightly dislodged by Dore’s comics and caricatures. “Before starting, the painting needs to be complete in my mind,” she explains as we pass a series of portraits titled Saraswati, Lakshmi, Kali Dancing, and Durga dominated by a roaring tiger. “These are all real people, I ask my friends and family members to sit for me.” The Kali in the drawing has the artist’s fiery copper red hair and she is dancing, surrounded by various men with flowing hair. The artist seems to have experimented here, drawing the revelers from above, and indulging in playful abandon. Depictions of Nepal are often in danger of being exoticised. But Caruso is familiar with her subjects, knows our alleys and temples intimately. Her colours and compositions are passionate and dense. In an essay, Anirudh S Chari writes the artist’s work is splashed with rapturous energy and most drawings have a carnivalesque element. ‘Kali Dancing’ illustrates this idea perfectly in that she has turned Kali’s usual fearsome portrayal on its head by depicting and embracing another feminine principle - the capacity to celebrate and create joy. Apart from drawing inspiration from Hindu goddesses and Nepal’s multi-colored rituals, Caruso has also drawn the Sumerian Ianna and Lillith and the Egyptian Nut. She enjoys drawing Nataraja, and says it is because “Shiva is a good husband”. We stand another painting titled 100 Days a Lion. “There is a saying in Italian, Better one day as a lion than a hundred days as a sheep, but I thought why not 100 Days a Lion?” This sentiment captures this nomadic artist’s spirit spanning four decades, in which she has captured urban energy as well as the sacred imagery of ‘life diaries on canvas’. From Venezia to Kathmandu and Journeys In Between Giovanna Caruso The Kalā Salon Chhaya Centre Mall, Thamel Till 12 December 10am- 8pm

Looking at Nepal from Venice

Shantanu Dhakal wakes up to a cold misty dawn, dons his college uniform and fastens his tie, tightening it carefully so as not to dislodge the tracheostomy tube protruding from his throat.
Gingerly, he brushes his teeth, mindful not to hurt the wound on his left cheek, where a bullet tore through during the GenZ protests on 8 September in the highway town of Itahari in eastern Nepal.&nbsp;
Dhakal, 18, came home from college that day three months ago and then took the bus to Itahari to join some friends who were protesting in front of the sub-metropolitan city office. It was mid-afternoon, and the crowd was chanting anti-corruption slogans and holding up placards.
Like most young Nepalis, Dhakal and his friends had been angered by videos on social media of the offspring of Nepal’s rich and powerful flaunting their lavish lifestyles.&nbsp;
"That was the trigger for me to join the protest, it opened my eyes to just how widespread nepotism and corruption was," Dhakal told Nepali Times.&nbsp;
The police arrested a few students, angering the crowd even more. They massed at the gate of a nearby police station to demand their friends be released. &nbsp;
Dhakal was standing across the street from the police station when the first shots rang out. The crowd scattered. As he ran for cover, there was a searing pain in his left jaw. Blood was streaming and it took some time for him to realise he had been shot.&nbsp;
“I was bleeding profusely and couldn’t speak. My vision blurred, there was a ringing in my ears,” Dhakal recalls. “I collected myself and continued to run, fearing that I would be shot a second time.”
Dhakal collapsed some distance away, and a fellow protestor took him to a nearby hospital, where doctors bandaged his jaw. He was referred to Birat Medical Teaching Hospital, where surgeons immediately performed an emergency operation. &nbsp;
The bullet had torn through his left jaw, shattering the bone, teeth, and soft tissue. Blood had rushed into his throat, obstructing the airway so doctors first performed a tracheostomy, installing a tube in his throat to help him keep breathing. A week later, the doctors reconstructed his jaw with metallic plates, grafting skin from his chest and transplanting it to the lower left side of his face.&nbsp;
Dhakal spent three weeks in hospital before being discharged. But the relief of being home was marred by disturbing thoughts. He says, “Just sitting there doing nothing began to take a toll on my mental health.” &nbsp;
Since he was always interested in content creation and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@docsbyshantanu">producing short documentaries</a>, he decided to document online his near-death experience and post-protest life.&nbsp;
Shantanu Dhakal’s Instagram and TikTok <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shantanu__dhakal/">posts are simple, short videos</a> every other day about his treatment process, dressing his wound and cleaning his tracheostomy tube, attending events with others injured during the protests, and scenes from everyday life in his family farm.&nbsp;
The comment section has Nepalis and people from around the world reaching out to ask how he is doing and keeping his spirits up. Dhakal now has a caring social media community, and he uses the platforms to keep in touch with other injured protestors across the country.&nbsp;
Life is returning to a new normal. This week, he returned to college to resume classes after more than two months and is making up for lost time. He has adjusted to speaking and eating with the tube, although the pain never quite goes away.&nbsp;
“I can eat mostly fine, but it is still difficult to speak,” he says. Soon, he will go to hospital for his fortnightly follow-up, and doctors will determine when his tracheostomy tube can be removed.
Like other young Nepalis, Dhakal is now even more politically engaged and actively reads the news of the interim government installed after the GenZ protests.&nbsp;
With the 5 March elections only three months away, young Nepalis like Dhakal hope that the elections will throw out the old and bring in the new. He is among the more than 800,000 new voters who have registered.&nbsp;
“The most important thing is that we have stable government,” he says. “As far as candidates go, an ideal one for me would be a person who prioritises health and education. But if the candidates in my constituency are not up to mark, I may not vote.”
Dhakal along with other injured protesters and relatives of those killed met &nbsp;Energy Minister Kulman Ghising, who has launched his own Ujyalo Nepal Party, and he is cautiously optimistic about the work of the current leadership. &nbsp;
It is a different story in Kathmandu, where Prime Minister Sushila Karki is struggling to manage the expectations of various youth collectives while trying to convince the old parties to participate in elections.&nbsp;
While the UML and NC are actively trying to delegitimise Karki’s government as they prepare to hold their respective general conventions, they are also preparing to give out tickets for elections.&nbsp;
Self-proclaimed GenZ leaders who used Discord to elect Karki prime minister are putting up their own conditions for the polls, even demanding her resignation for failing to meet their demands. This is in sharp contrast to the feelings of many of those injured during the protests who want elections so the nation can heal, and move on.

A new normal

It is quite a feat for just two actors on a darkened stage to hold an audience spellbound for more than one hour. Yet, ‘के? Us.’ at Kausi Theatre does just that. It is a thought-provoking but baffling work that leaves the audience questioning reality, the recurring metaphors in this intriguing and powerful dark comedy haunting us for days afterwards.&nbsp; The unsettling sound of deep breathing mingles with percussive drumming and a driving guitar that pulsates amidst a red glow, dimly illuminating shadowy structures charred by fire. A door leads to what is later revealed to be the ancestral home of two brothers which is ‘under renovation’. One of the brothers Ashim (Bijaya Tamrakar) lives in Nepal caring for a supposedly comatose mother who is only depicted by a tree draped with red LED lights that circulate arterial blood corpuscles. Visiting him is a long-lost brother Aaryan (Eelum Dixit) who has returned (deported?) from America.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The stage is littered with scattered paper trash, a run-down motorcycle chassis, a tattered sofa, and beat-up table and chairs. The stage is set for a sinister plot. Are the characters to be punished in perdition?&nbsp; It does not take long for the audience to grasp that this is an apocalyptic Nepal that, following absurdist traditions, could exist at any time in the future or the present day <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/election-vs-escalation">post-GenZ protest state</a>. Ashim and Aaryan Adhikari have reunited after 15 years. Ashim, the younger brother, has been burdened with the responsibility of taking care of their brain-dead mother. Aaryan, returns after having migrated to the US, where he married, had children, divorced, and lost everything. He has been at “minus 20 and is now back to zero”.&nbsp; The brothers have intense back-and-forths that expose their cynicism, the conversation tangentially alluding to Nepal’s unstable political landscape, migration, an economy in shambles, aging population, alcoholism and other mental health issues. Even the sibling argument about the relative merits of momos and burgers seems metaphorical. The stagecraft uses lighting and sound effects brilliantly, transporting the audience to a surreal world in which Tamrakar and Dixit improvise their lines — no two shows are exactly the same, although the overall plotline has continuity.&nbsp; In the first scene, Aaryan approaches the house tentatively, creeping rodent-like, and carrying a briefcase and an old-fashioned lantern. And at the end, Ashim screams, “I am chaos.” Is this the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end?&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Choas play review"> </figure>  At one point Aaryan seems perturbed by the sound of protest outside (the Gen Z movement?) and the taut atmosphere grips the audience with fear, shock, and apprehension of the recent death and destruction.&nbsp; Throughout the play there is the sound of breathing, as if through a ventilator, a thumping heartbeat, the morbid buzzing of flies and the glowing red LED veins -- signifying the presence of the comatose Aama. She is featured in a prologue-esque home video at the start of the play in which she reminisces about her two sons and rues her failing memory.&nbsp; The sound of breathing gets accentuated each time a brother gets closer to the tree, and it seems to fuel Ashim’s belief that Aama may be brain-dead but she is still among them. This play can go as deep as each individual in the audience wants it to go.&nbsp; The silenced, comatose mother could be Nepali Aama muted by an entrenched patriarchy. Or, she could be the symbol of a helpless country while her children fight over the ruins of what is left. The cake cutting is a delightfully Shakespearean subplot where we wonder if one of the brothers is going to poison, or knife, the other. The message is clear: how can we move forward if it is brother against brother? The stairs signify political transition (elections, constitutional change, new coalitions) promising upward movement, but eventually lead to falls, leaving the nation exactly where it started, or worse. The mother’s terminal illness evokes an ailing state apparatus, hollowed out by corruption and deep-seated social decay. Yet the brothers cling to an irrational hope — instead of confronting the harsh truth and pursuing radical solutions, suggesting a blind faith in the mother.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The brothers are lost. Aaryan climbs up stairs that lead nowhere, Ashim holds on to unrealistic hope that somehow Aama will get better. Tamrakar and Dixit deliver powerful performances, even more remarkable for the fact that they are improvising their lines as they go along. When Aaryan breaks a wall and directly addresses the audience, spectators turn from being passive observers to active participants (‘the society’). The audience then become oglers in this drama, suddenly made self-aware of our role as the scrutinising, cavilling voyeurs that society represents. There is some discomfort of being watched and judged.&nbsp; By asking his brother what he is afraid of while pointing at the audience, Aaryan suggests that the brother's (and perhaps the character's core) fear is not just of the house, or the mother's illness, but of external judgment and societal censure. After the stage goes dark, the applause takes some time. Audience members shuffle out in silence, minds reeling from the collective soul-searching they have just participated in.&nbsp; After ‘के? Us.’ the din at Teku intersection outside sounds different as we wait for our Pathao ride below the खरी tree where <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=Shukra+Raj+Shastri&amp;client=safari&amp;sca_esv=75e8315709cd5118&amp;rls=en&amp;sxsrf=AE3TifMJhwukjdBBT0n4QcQWe8IYSaEVsw%3A1764648053799&amp;ei=dWQuaYbIMOy94-EPn4ygyAE&amp;ved=2ahUKEwiU1ciogp6RAxXq3TQHHeo9LBIQgK4QegQIARAB&amp;uact=5&amp;oq=nepal+tree+where+martyrs+were+hanged&amp;gs_lp=Egxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAiJG5lcGFsIHRyZWUgd2hlcmUgbWFydHlycyB3ZXJlIGhhbmdlZDIIECEYoAEYwwRIug5QAFiNC3AAeAGQAQCYAc4BoAHrCKoBBTAuNS4xuAEDyAEA-AEBmAIDoALlBMICBRAAGO8FmAMA4gMFEgExIECSBwUwLjEuMqAHzw-yBwUwLjEuMrgH5QTCBwcwLjIuMC4xyAcM&amp;sclient=gws-wiz-serp&amp;mstk=AUtExfCLIneLVW3SFBzxBc964wFcTJ936tcAPSDcvNKljck0PIqDJddMZ_t8Pg610M98MCx14aNdnyLHs9QM0jWLhI7JYmkPhugX1ZHfSQvdCHZE9E5m2_ZQY5Jr893UcGjQfpabtA_C48NfB9Pg56uYMOmTtEBEcGuvz3d96Qaifyb86sI8mAkrRNo_367cv_xmFjLZ55iQkfHtORuOvZSUkIdMvAdpweuf4jPjjI4anbv9lc-uCImdP0JSvtvEGL8ePxwsWWOzYpIbjNP1zofjcWXK&amp;csui=3" target="_blank">Shukra Raj Shastri</a> was hanged in 1941 by the Rana regime. Language and Literature Students, 2026.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="1350" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  ‘के? Us.’ Kausi Theatre, Teku Till 7 December (except 2 December) Bookings: +977 9842156109, 9842574607

Staged chaos evokes state of Nepal

This is the 75th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. My father was a country boy from Sarlahi, and my mother a city girl from Kathmandu. They had an inter-ethnic marriage, which was difficult until the two families gradually began to accept it. My parents, who worked in development, viewed the world through a social lens. They often traveled overseas for their INGO work, leaving me and my sister behind. We spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house, or in rented apartments with guardians. Between Grades 1 and 10, I must have switched schools seven times. Our parents prioritised our education, and enrolled me in the most expensive schools. I was shocked by my school fees, and often wondered how they managed with their salaries.&nbsp; I wanted to become a businessman, so I could have the kind of life some of my well-to-do friend had. My family was not from a business background, and social services didn’t lend themselves to that kind of lifestyle. Now I realise what my parents gave me was already over the top, a truth that becomes clearer as I get older. Our family was getting along fine until our father died while working on a project in Dhading in September 2021. The official reason was ‘heart attack’. We do not talk about this much, perhaps as a way of dealing with the loss.&nbsp; He was our rock, and everything got harder. At least we had good people around us who reminded us to take care of our mother and to work hard. And we did. My sister and I made TikToks during the lockdown, initially in a joint account which reached its peak in 2022-2023. I had always wanted to be an actor, but I knew the film industry does not pay well. My parents also urged me to keep my interest in acting as a passion project. TikTok enabled us to showcase our talent for comedy. We figured out how to crack TikTok’s algorithm and stayed on top of trends. People liked our duo and the raw and authentic content. It required a strategy, luck, planning, and understanding the game.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1778" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  We use a hashtag #NakarmiKhanalAF in all our content drawing from my parents’ last names although they did not need to know what ‘AF’ stood for.&nbsp; My first viral content involving a humorous take on a Marvel character hit over 500k. That fusion combining international trends with Nepali humor worked really well, and I started making it my niche, adapting content.&nbsp; My father was always thick-skinned and did not have to try to be cool or tough. He was unapologetically himself, sometimes to the point where my sister and I felt embarrassed. When he was invited as a chief guest at a cricket game, for example, I remember feeling proud to be the child of an ‘important person’, but he grabbed the mic and told everyone to start cleaning the ground.&nbsp; Many of our friends came from wealthy families because of the schools we attended, and he proudly lectured them about our humble background and the importance of social service. Growing up, we tried hard to get his validity. My proudest moment was gifting him a shirt bought with my first salary. My father did not get to see our rise on social media, but I know he is watching over us just as he always did. The first brand deal I got was memorable but awkward. It was for a grooming package for private parts. I used to think about how movie actors start their journeys with advertisements for underwear, and this was going to be my story, my ‘humble beginning’ as a content creator.&nbsp; They did not even pay me money but just gave me the items. Other brands started coming in and with them, money. I earned as much as Rs40,000 per content and tried to make one every day. This was a big contrast to my monthly salary of Rs35,000 in a clothing store. All along, I was acutely aware that fame would not last forever. Just like one of my singer friends Wangden had said in a podcast: he was going to have fun while fame lasted.&nbsp; After TikTok was banned in India, there was even more uncertainty about social media. The alternates were also not assuring: people running businesses had to close up or were stuck, and the political uncertainty was scary. This pushed me to think about migrating, and Australia was a safe backup. I uploaded content right upto two hours before my flight from Kathmandu. I wanted to have enough savings so I did not have to start working right away in Australia. I was buying freedom. Since I had to change schools frequently, Rodin was one of few enduring friends I had. He was in Australia and assured me that he would take care of everything, and he did. He was my family there, and I did not have to go through the initial struggle that other international students had to endure.&nbsp; In Australia, I have done multiple jobs over the last two years and completed my MBA. My interviewer challenged me to make him laugh with one of my content videos. He did and I started work the very next day though I know I got the job because a hardworking friend had recommended me. To the boss, I was just another Nepali who could work swiftly. I mopped floors, washed dishes, and served customers. This was Australia, and I hustled. But I knew there had to be more to life. The long hours and little sleep eventually caught up with me. One day I slept 14–15 hours straight, and when I woke up, it hit me that I should try networking.&nbsp; I reached out to admins of Australia-based Facebook groups. Some replied, some did not, some offered jobs that were not for me. Then came an email from 8848 Momo House, and I travelled to Brisbane to meet the owner Hom Pyashi.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1548" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  “Do you want momos?” was the first thing he asked warmly. He told me to stop by one of his new outlets and make a video. I did, and I was hired the next day.&nbsp; It was that easy, and I have been working there ever since. My boss would later share in a conversation that he did not hire me because of the video but because I was young and he saw hunger in my eyes. To him, I was clay that he could help shape. I am now the marketing head, and the chain is doing well. Content creation is still a side job that brings in money. But just as my parents said, it remains a side passion.&nbsp; Then came the GenZ protests. On social media I compared Nepal’s youth to relaxed backbenchers who finally act when provoked enough to get things done. I could relate to the rage and suffocation. A song I was featured in was supposed to be released just when social media was banned in Nepal, and that fuelled my anger. But from the onset, I was wary of the headless nature of this movement, there was no ठुलो मान्छे leading and no one would be accountable if something went wrong. There was so much uncertainty, and I am not comfortable with uncertainty. We were glued to social media as the protests happened, at work and in the gym. When we learnt of the deaths of young Nepalis back home, a part of me died. The grief of unexpectedly losing my father came back.&nbsp; I left the gym early because I just could not take it. My friend and I just drove quietly to a nearby waterside. We did not even sit together because neither of us wanted to notice that we were in tears.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  One of the messages I received was a GoFundMe link to support the victims. I shared it, but someone asked if it was genuine. That is when it hit me that I had a large social media following and could not just share things without verifying them. I removed the link. The only person I felt I could trust was myself, so I decided to start my own fundraiser. I felt emotional and helpless, and had to do something.&nbsp; I assumed we could raise around AUD5,000. I was wrong. Within hours, we had raised nearly AUD60,000. Fellow content creators Avash and Manzil from Minority Report had also started a GoFundMe, and we decided to join forces.&nbsp; Partnering with them was going to be a lifesaver because I was not at all prepared for what was ahead. Over 11,000 people contributed across our two campaigns, raising AUD514,386. But we had not thought through the logistical challenge, the online hate and the delays. We needed to release the money to the right organisations in Nepal, get complete information about the families of the martyrs and injured — our primary target groups.&nbsp; We faced a huge amount of backlash after a hate narrative instigated by a few people spread online. We just could not get our message across that it was not as simple as raising the money and handing it over. People believed what they wanted to believe. Internet hate can take you to very dark places, even when you believe in your cause and know it can bring some comfort to grieving families. You try to focus on the positive message, because many people did support us, but the hate and accusations do bring you down.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98.png" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98" data-rendition-name="original" width="1320" height="2868" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  When I was paralysed by the internet hate to carry out even the most mundane activities like cooking and cleaning, my roommate Bibek took over. He even made me watch an episode from the Mahabharat capturing Krishna’s teachings on karma without worrying about the fruits, a lesson that did not just help me get out of that depressive episode but has become a guiding principle for life. How would I have emerged out of that darkness when I was battling with suicidal thoughts if people had not showed up for me? We worked day and night to find the right partners, and because of the large amount of money and the level of transparency we asked for, many influencers or organisations turned us down.&nbsp; This was not easy because we had our own jobs to take care of, our own bills to worry about that were not linked to the fundraiser. It helped that my team at 8848 let me deal with this during work hours, and assured me that they will stand by me no matter what. Thankfully, we finally partnered with Nepal Rising (Daayitwa US), a professional and transparent organisation that stepped in and saved the day. GoFundme finally released the funds to their account and it has begun reaching the right people. My sister helped ensure the money is delivered properly. As a final check, I speak with the families in Nepal and offer my condolences. I honour their loved one’s contribution to our country and we will make sure it is never forgotten. But no matter what we say or how much we try to help, the heartbreaking truth is that their young son or sibling is not coming back. The narrative is slowly changing. Slaps are now claps. But the trauma of the public hate is so great that it still gnaws at me, I have anxiety about attending Nepali gatherings like concerts here. I remember when a dance I had created for Bola Maya went viral on TikTok, with tens of thousands of people picking it up. A chef friend told me it was time to use that influence for a social cause. Those words stayed with me. As I navigated the backlash, I was also reminded of my parents who worked on social causes and asked my mother if they had faced similar cases. She had, and she reminded me that all we can do is stay focused on the cause and drown out the noise. Things will eventually work out.