<figure><img width="3700" height="1900" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101116/637208159c7e80680e0b54cajpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption></figcaption></figure>The coronavirus disease is one of the most well-documented health crises of recent times, with its correlation to almost every sector in society -- including the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/post-pandemic-mental-health-epidemic/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">mental cost</a> of prolonged lockdowns and the stress during the pandemic. Studies have linked a higher prevalence of anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), hypochondria, obsessive disorders and psychotic symptoms among the general population in the last two years.But for the first time, <a href="https://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0262958&amp;fbclid=IwAR3GhEvU6qnCjQuwR-HEye8Jk3foYOofrmAgpLCgHZEhjm9r_2PWAOpZCBE" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">a new study</a> squarely links the rise in suicide ideation with the pandemic in Nepal. Police records also show a spike in suicides and self-harm cases in the past two years.Suicide cases had been rising even before the pandemic with 5,509 in 2018 and 5,898 in 2019. However, it jumped to 6,968 during the first year of the pandemic in 2020 — putting the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepal-sees-spike-in-suicides-during-pandemic/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">suicide rate</a> at 23.9 per 100,000 population.‘The yearly increase in the suicide rate from 2019 to 2020 is 16%, which is more than threefold higher than a yearly increase in the suicide rate from 2018 to 2019 (5%),’ states the paper published on PLOS ONE last month.Titled ‘Association between COVID-19 pandemic and the suicide rates in Nepal’ and conducted by Binod Acharya, Keshav Subedi, Pramod Acharya and Shweta Ghimire, research analysed a total of 24,350 suicides in four years from July 2017 to June 2021 based on Nepal Police data.It investigated changing <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/the-other-pandemic-mental-health/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">suicide rates</a> in Nepal during the Covid-19 pandemic period (April 2020 to June 2021), compared to the pre-pandemic period (July 2017 to March 2020), adjusted for seasonality and long-term trends in the suicide rate.Males had a higher suicide rate (26.9 per 100,000) than females (16.5 per 100,000), but suicide rates went down over the last two years among males, but was sustained for a longer duration among females. <img width="542" height="600" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101116/637208189c7e80680e0b54cbjpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="533" height="600" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101116/6372081b9c7e80680e0b54ccjpeg.jpg" alt="">For example, all the pandemic months except April and May of 2020 and February and March of 2021 had a significantly higher suicide rate compared to the same months in 2019. In comparison to the same month in 2019, July 2020 (just after the first lockdown) had the highest increase in the suicide rate with an increment of 55%.Researchers have pointed out limited or lack of economic resources, public health infrastructure and awareness about mental health as leading factors for the increase in suicides in Nepal during the pandemic.Nepal is one of the countries with highest suicides rates in the world according to the World Health Organization (WHO). The 2021 Nepal Health Research Council (NHRC)’s National Mental Health Survey found the prevalence of suicidality (current suicidal thoughts, lifetime suicidal attempt and future likelihood of suicidal thoughts) at a high of 7.2% among Nepalis. During the study period of this latest survey, the highest proportion of the suicides were observed in Bagmati province (5,709; 23.4%), followed by Province 1 (5,161; 21.2%), Lumbini (4,757; 19.5%), Madhes (3,053; 12.5%), Gandaki (2,369; 9.7%), Sudurpaschim (2,176; 8.9%), and Karnali (1,125, 4.6%).But Sudurpaschim and Karnali provinces, two of the provinces with the lowest Human Development Index (HDI), had the highest increase in suicide rates associated with the Covid-19 pandemic.‘Sudarpaschim and Karnali regions are also known to have a historically high proportion of seasonal <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/in-the-minds-of-nepals-migrant-workers/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">migrant workers</a> in India. People in this region could have experienced additional distress as their migrant family members lost their jobs in India because of the business closure and lockdown,’ states the study.Alternatively, Province 1 which has the highest HDI and relatively low poverty rate among seven provinces has had consistently high pre-Covid-19 suicide rates, but had the smallest increase during the pandemic.Official data shows that Nepal registered an early increase in the suicide rate and mental health problems during the pandemic. Many factors come into play: lack of financial stimulus packages in the beginning, irresponsible media reportage about the virus, conflicting messages by authorities and the s<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-health-workers-battle-covid-19-but-also-stigma/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">ocial stigma of being infected</a> all added to the psychological stress in the public.Restrictions during the pandemic also meant that mental health patients were unable to get timely consultation and medication, further aggravating their condition. ‘Public health interventions to the pandemic, especially the severe ones like lockdowns and business closure, should incorporate economic safety nets and mental health service delivery mechanisms catered to geographic, socio-economic differences and needs,’ recommend the researchers. <img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101116/6372081d9c7e80680e0b54cdjpeg.jpg" alt="">Suicides are preventable and treatment of mental health disorders can save lives. A comprehensive suicide surveillance system to maintain detailed suicide and attempt statistics within the jurisdiction of public health agencies rather than just the law-enforcement agencies can be a start.Addressing the underlying cause of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/coping-with-anxiety-in-new-lockdown/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">mental health problems</a> is still the most effective way to prevent suicides. This requires increased awareness and education through various platforms including social media, mass communication and school curriculum, which will in turn also help reduce the stigma associated with psychological disorders. Besides consultation and medication, family support plays a crucial role in healing people with trauma, depression or psychosis. Telemedicine, in particular, has been essential in preventing self-harm during the pandemic but these services need to be scaled up to cover the whole country.The paper concludes: ‘The Covid-19 pandemic is associated with an increased suicide rate in Nepal. The findings may inform policymakers in designing appropriate public health responses to the pandemic that are considerate of the potential impact on mental health and suicide.’Do not shy away from seeking help. If you, or anyone you know, would like to speak to a trained mental health professional, please contact:TUTH Suicide Hotline: 9840021600Transcultural Psychosocial Organisation-Nepal Crisis Hotline: 1660 0102005Mental Health Helpline Nepal: 1660 0133666Centre for Mental Health and Counselling Nepal Toll-free: 16600185080, Hotline: 1145Koshish Toll-free helpline: 166001-22322 (Bagmati Province)Patan Hospital Helpline: 9813476123National Suicide Prevention helpline operated by Mental Hospital Lagankhel and TPO: 1166

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Suicides: a pandemic within a pandemic

<h2>The conflict and earthquake added to Nepal’s hidden epidemic of mental disorder</h2><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca479c7e80680e02f2fejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="1050"/><figcaption>MEMORIES: Nani Maiya Prajapati was serving lunch to her husband, daughter, son-in law and two grandchildren when the earthquake struck three years ago. She survived, but the rest of her family did not. The 2015 tragedy left mental scars on thousands of survivors like her that will take time to heal. ROJITA ADHIKARI</figcaption></figure><a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/stigma-and-silence-mental-health-nepal,3486">One-third of Nepalis</a> were already suffering some form of psychiatric disorder, but mental health experts say the numbers <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/psychological-scars-of-maoist-conflict-on-young-survivors-take-longer-to-heal,1519">went up significantly during the Maoist conflict</a> and rose again after the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/kundadixit/2015/05/27/a-month-that-felt-like-a-year/">2015 earthquake</a>.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca4a9c7e80680e02f2ffjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="130" height="101">Besides existing psychological disorders in the general population, there are now torture victims, child soldiers, combatants with post-traumatic stress disorders (PTSD), <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Mental-cost-of-migration,3159">mistreated migrant workers</a>, and lately earthquake survivors who had narrow escapes or lost family members.Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=4261&amp;preview=true">Time heals</a>, Prabin DhungelArun Bhattarai was lying down for a nap that Saturday three years ago when a deep underground rumble followed by a big jolt woke him up. His house in Dhading collapsed, and his family became earthquake refugees in Kathmandu. Bhattarai, now 46, suffered from insomnia and anxiety attacks for months afterwards. The trauma drove him to drink, but today after treatment he has beaten his alcoholism.“A lot of people suffered from anxiety, <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/editorial/the-republic-of-insomnia,3311">post-traumatic stress disorder</a> and depression following trauma and bereavement during the earthquake, some even attempted suicide,” says mental health specialist Kapil Dev Upadhyay. “The disaster aggravated the psychosocial condition of many patients who were already recovering.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca4b9c7e80680e02f300jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="500" height="715"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><a href="https://reliefweb.int/sites/reliefweb.int/files/resources/Hidden-Aftershocks_Summary-Report.pdf">A survey</a> of earthquake-affected districts of Rasuwa, Nuwakot and Makwanpur for the Nepal Red Cross Society, conducted by the group Transcultural Psychosocial Organisation (TPO),  showed that nearly 40% of respondents suffered from <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/all-in-mind/the-silent-scream-depression-is-common-but-only-few-get-treatment,588">depression</a> and anxiety for a year-and-half after the earthquake. Another 22% said they had suicidal thoughts, and a quarter had taken to drinking heavily. More women than men were affected by the symptoms (see chart).Sunita KC was out for a Saturday walk with her husband at Kathmandu Darbar Square when nearby <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Monumental-loss,2215">monuments swayed and collapsed</a> in clouds of dust. The 23-year-old was plagued with nightmares and lost the will to live. She got better after medication, but three years later her symptoms have returned. This week KC was in a clinic in Kathmandu with her family for consultation where she was diagnosed with severe depression.At the Psychiatric Department of Teaching Hospital, Rishav Koirala estimates that every family has at least one member afflicted with some form of mental illness after the earthquake.“In a way, the earthquake was a blessing in disguise because it raised public awareness about mental health and partially removed the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=14138#.WthaP26FPIU">stigma</a>. The government was also forced to address mental healthcare.”Indeed, the government trained MBBS doctors to provide psychiatric help to survivors in the primary health care systems and district hospitals. Nepal’s Mental Health Policy, adopted in 1997 but rarely implemented, is finally being revised.At an <a href="http://mentalhealthconferencenepal.com/programme/">international conference on mental health in Kathmandu</a> in February, the government pledged to prioritise mental health, increase investment for a mental health focal unit in each provincial health ministry, and to recognise alcohol and substance abuse as mental health problems.“School level psychological education can help change societal attitudes towards mental disorders, and since Nepalis are resilient and family-oriented there is a support system,” says psychiatrist Namrata Pradhan at Model Hospital.Nepal has one of the lowest patients to psychiatrists ratios in the world. In addition, society has entrenched stigma about ‘mad’ people who are often ostracised, often by family members. Even before the earthquake, patients were left to fend for themselves.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca4d9c7e80680e02f301jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="878" height="516"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Rabi Shakya, professor of psychiatry at the Patan Academy of Health Sciences agrees that the public is more aware of mental disorders after the earthquake. “There has been a visible change in terms of awareness and general acceptance level regarding mental health, and as a result patients are coming out and seeking treatment,” he told Nepali Times this week.Post-earthquake studies have shown higher rates of psychiatric disorders, but the major limitation is the lack of a baseline study. The Nepal Health Research Council is now preparing a nationwide mental health survey later this year to help develop a longterm plan to upgrade psychiatric care.Says mental health activist and former patient Jagannath Lamichanne: “We need public awareness and acceptance so that people are comfortable with sharing their experiences, and that can be the most powerful tool for prevention.”Name of patients have been changed.Read also:<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/stigma-and-silence-mental-health-nepal,3486">Stigma and silence</a>,  Ketan Dulal<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/editorial/the-republic-of-insomnia,3311">The republic of insomnia</a>,  Editorial<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/psychological-scars-of-maoist-conflict-on-young-survivors-take-longer-to-heal,1519">Post-conflict stress syndrome</a>,  Taylor Caldwell<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/down-and-out,3158">Down and Out</a>,  Smriti Basnet

Sonia Awale

It’s all in the mind

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca509c7e80680e02f302jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="844"/><figcaption>Pic: Gopen Rai</figcaption></figure>Immediately after <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/kundadixit/2015/05/27/a-month-that-felt-like-a-year/">the earthquake</a>, there was a <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/editorial/the-republic-of-insomnia,3311">sudden surge of patients with mental disorders</a> in Kathmandu’s psychiatric clinics.But since 2016, records at the Nepal Mental Hospital and Bir Hospital show a sharp decrease in the number of patients with post-traumatic stress disorders. Doctors say the reason is that most patients with earthquake-related psychosocial issues received medication, counselling and support from families in the last three years.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca539c7e80680e02f303jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="130" height="101">Even so, some survivors still have anxiety attacks during an aftershock or when they hear loud noises. Pukar Gautam was a college student who found himself in the narrow alleys of Patan when the earthquake struck.Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=4260&amp;preview=true">All in the mind</a>, Sonia Awale“I was terrified and took cover below a sturdy beam,” Gautam remembers. He was traumatised for months afterwards, and even today feels claustrophobic in narrow, crowded alleys.Many traumatised children had to be counselled when schools reopened two months after the earthquake in 2015. They could not concentrate on their studies, had difficulty sleeping and looked distracted.Niroj Mali is a teacher at Chantal Mauduit Academy in Taukhel, and remembers students were still in shock when they came back to school. Instead of regular classes he had the children sing, dance and watch cartoons. “They are doing well now, the earthquake seems like a bad dream,” Mali says.Sandeep Bista, 32, works for the Red Cross and was trapped in a room in Bhaisepati with a visiting aunt when the earthquake struck. He was treated for persistent anxiety, and feels much better now. But his aunt suffers relapses and has to regularly visit the district hospital in Ramechhap.Chief Psychiatrist Lata Shrestha at the Nepal Mental Hospital confirms that the number of patients with psychological trauma has declined to levels before the earthquake. “I have seen more people now seeking psychological help and counselling for trauma and this is a positive side-effect of the earthquake,” she says.Nawal Jha was posted to hospitals in earthquake affected districts and remembers treating many survivors with <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/down-and-out,3158">mental disorders</a>. Younger patients who had seen much death and destruction were even <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/all-in-mind/suicide-after-earthquake,496">suicidal</a>, he remembers.Purnima Lama was in a building in Bungamati and suffered a fracture when the house she was in collapsed. She needed medical treatment, but was reluctant to seek psychological counselling. “I was scared <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/stigma-and-silence-mental-health-nepal,3486">others would think I was mad</a>,” she says, recalling how a relative was ostracised from her village in Dhading after she was mentally traumatised after a brother was killed during the conflict.Psychiatrist Basu Dev Karki also says societal attitudes towards mental disorders are changing: “People now look at mental health at par with other medical conditions. That is a positive step in ensuring the mental wellbeing of the people.”Some names have been altered.  Read also:<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/stigma-and-silence-mental-health-nepal,3486">Stigma and silence</a>,  Ketan Dulal<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/editorial/the-republic-of-insomnia,3311">The republic of insomnia</a>,  Editorial<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/psychological-scars-of-maoist-conflict-on-young-survivors-take-longer-to-heal,1519">Post-conflict stress syndrome</a>,  Taylor Caldwell<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/down-and-out,3158">Down and Out</a>,  Smriti Basnet

Time heals

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

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

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.

Things eventually work out

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