Bhaktapur is all about ritual, resistance, and remembrance. Now a <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/nepals-new-generation-of-alternative-artists">new generation of artists</a> is exploring the city of devotees through art. Balkrishna Banmala was a child <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/deity-devotion-and-divine-dance">deity dancer</a> who performed sacred tantric rituals. But what many saw as divine honour for Banmala was a time stolen from his childhood. “On the surface, it looked beautiful to be honoured with offerings and prayers,” Banmala tells us. “But behind the masks and the barefoot dances, we were children denied a normal life. No school, no shoes, no time to play.” Banmala is now an artist and his canvases are part of the Chitra Katha exhibition at <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/amalgamation-of-nepali-art">Siddhartha Art Gallery</a>. His artwork blur the line between the sacred and the everyday: a masked deity riding a bicycle, a divine child licking an ice cream cone. Some of these images have sparked outrage in his own community. “When I first exhibited these works, community leaders saw them as betrayal,” adds Banmala. “Some even tore up my paintings. A police complaint was filed. But I believe art must speak the truth even when it is uncomfortable.” His <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/painting-a-painter">paintings</a> at Chitra Katha incorporate circular motifs inspired by the Navadurga Jatra where Banmala weaves cosmological cycles into his paintings, saying, “In the cycle of life: Brahma creates, Vishnu sustains, and Shiva destroys. My work reflects this cycle--today, tomorrow, and beyond.” Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/old-art-meets-new">Old art meets new</a>, Sikuma Rai  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250424110456_8f9008ff390c9e49dbd60d4c0a887e04f249686a8d1db3329cc0d66dc3a0737f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20250424110456_8f9008ff390c9e49dbd60d4c0a887e04f249686a8d1db3329cc0d66dc3a0737f" data-rendition-name="original" width="848" height="809" loading="lazy" alt="Between the sacred and everyday"> <figcaption>Brahma by Balkrishna Banmala Photo: SIDDHARTHA ART GALLERY</figcaption> </figure>  For Banmala, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/the-art-of-healing">art has become a form of therapy</a>, a step to healing the inherited burdens of tradition. “Children in my community continue to be worshipped at the cost of their dreams. I want them to have what I didn’t. My <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/art-as-a-call-to-action">art is my protest</a>, my hope, and my prayer.” Altogether, 28 artists from <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/clash-of-cultures-in-bhaktapur">Bhaktapur</a> are exhibiting their works at Siddhartha Art Gallery with everyday stories of the city in the form of paintings, drawings, ceramics, printmaking, light installations. Many works use local materials like terracotta, wood and cement, grounding their expressions both literally and metaphorically in Bhaktapur’s soil. Narayan Bohaju’s diptych Floating Hopes II offers a dreamlike view of <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=15106">urban chaos</a>. Public vehicles float alongside lotus leaves. The visual texture almost resembles Studio Ghibli, and invites onlookers to romanticise even the most distressing reality, thereby offering some hope even in unexpected places. In Echoes of Childhood Community, Bohaju returns to Bhaktapur’s spiritual core. A towering temple-like chariot teems with figures in communion: local vendors, families, fruit baskets, religious icons--anchoring a city where sacred and mundane coexist.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025042412044_81a2b9042948ed7edc871671b486bb14fa1a137e09119b0a0bb945236a72619c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="2025042412044_81a2b9042948ed7edc871671b486bb14fa1a137e09119b0a0bb945236a72619c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1999" height="1721" loading="lazy" alt="Between the sacred and everyday"> <figcaption>Echoes of Childhood Community by Narayan Bohaju</figcaption> </figure>  Meanwhile, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/reimagined-roots">Pooja Duwal</a>’s series Custodians of the Ephemeral celebrates the beauty in the ordinary. Rendered in oil, her scenes capture fleeting moments of men in dhaka topi, elders sipping tea, neighbours chatting at street corners. Her remarkable works showcase unremarkable everyday scenes. Reminiscing Memories by Srijan Ulak uses pen and ink to trace the fading outlines of <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=19496">Bhaktapur’s architecture</a> and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/building-homes-on-a-deadline">ancestral homes</a>. His detailed work speaks to nostalgia, and the slow erosion that came with <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/rice-fields-to-concrete-terraces">urbanisation and concrete</a>. For artist Anjila Manandhar, power comes from turning personal struggles into sacred strength. Her artwork often features skulls and divine figures but they represent her, she tells us. “The heads and skulls I draw are like those of Chamunda or Kali. But I gave that power to myself. I made myself the <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=16471">goddess</a> strong, playful, and defiant. It’s how I motivate myself and heal.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025042412040_a2c54afebe5e244cd5fed0ed30f27956c3aa317c0d8435dcc01d69352e98cbb6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_16" data-image-id="2025042412040_a2c54afebe5e244cd5fed0ed30f27956c3aa317c0d8435dcc01d69352e98cbb6" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Between the sacred and everyday"> <figcaption>Nothing by Anjila Manandhar Photo: SIDDHARTHA ART GALLERY</figcaption> </figure>  Manandhar’s works explore identity through <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/when-art-unites-what-divides-us">surreal metaphors</a>. One recurring image is of an ant with a human face. “Ants are everywhere. Tiny, sensitive, stepped on without notice. In many ways, humans are the same. We keep moving, but we rarely look down. Maybe if we did, we’d be more grounded.” Sunflowers are another constant theme, and Manandhar explains that the blossoms always turn to the sun and feel like guardians that are always rising, watching, and protecting. Anjila’s art moves fluidly between strength and fragility, empowering viewers. The exhibition also features Suraj Shilpakar, a master <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/in-with-the-old-in-with-the-new">woodcarver </a>deeply rooted in his family’s artisanal legacy. Woodcarving is his identity, and he strives to preserve the craft while constantly aiming to reinterpret it. Shilpakar explores modern themes through painting, printmaking, and ceramics. His Baja Gaja series is a standout at the exhibition, a sculptural tribute to the role of music in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/progress-and-or-preservation">cultural preservation</a>.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025042412040_936a3c559c3de6f3177c5d2a01f15e765208727e54949324395668e19bbda11e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_20" data-image-id="2025042412040_936a3c559c3de6f3177c5d2a01f15e765208727e54949324395668e19bbda11e" data-rendition-name="original" width="3222" height="2177" loading="lazy" alt="Between the sacred and everyday"> <figcaption>Baja Gaja series by Suraj Shilpakar</figcaption> </figure>  The piece is built in the tudal style. The struts represent support. He says, “It honours how youth and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-sacred-female-energy-of-shakti">women uphold traditions </a>through music. Today, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-musical-bridge-between-past-and-present">music isn’t just a celebration, it holds culture together.</a>” The work is a reminder that tradition can evolve, adapt, and inspire, while keeping its essence. Each piece at the Chitra Katha exhibition is a meditation on heritage, belief, and identity. The lotus reappears as a quiet metaphor for resilience amidst chaos. The skulls, deities, and age-old rituals find their place beside evocations of temples, myths, and ancestral echoes. Themes of religion, tradition, mortality and divinity recur. Bhaktapur’s artists offer their intimate stories, inviting onlookers to find personal resonance within the folds of collective memory. They are building new ways for future generations to remember their lives. Chitra Katha Siddhartha Art Gallery, Baber Mahal Revisited Until 11 May Sunday to Friday 11AM-5PM Saturdays 12-5PM

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Between the sacred and everyday

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114111128/6372185f9c7e80680e0baa3bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2000" height="1334"/><figcaption>"The old man with young hands iii", 2019, Pen and ink on paper. Photos: MONIKA DEUPALA.</figcaption></figure>Sitting cross-legged in the dappled light under a tree outside the Siddhartha Art Gallery, his hand resting on a knee and wearing a black baseball cap, Samridh Mukhiya says, “I am a conceptual artist.”Inside the gallery the walls are lined with canvases in which Mukhiya has sketched pieces plucked delicately from his consciousness. Black ink on white fields give the impression of freshness, the spaces between the lines are mysterious and inviting with leitmotifs: bubbles, wells, trees, machines spewing smoke in the air, geometric shapes, strings.Born to artist Tek Bir Mukhiya who is renowned for his cover designs for many books by Sajha Publications – such as Parijat’s Shiris ko Phool and Devkota’s Muna Madan – Mukhiya, 35, admits, “I tend to use metaphors a lot.”Indeed, the artworks in the exhibition range from representations of quantum physics to political allegory, from mental health to the zodiac. And the result is as diverse as it is concise, without a hint of self-indulgence – even in the surreal Things I am grateful for, which was completed in 2018 as part of the series Mantra.A giant oval face with closed eyes is supported on both sides by two hands. The face is sliced like a clean loaf of bread, but the face is unflinching and content. More hands, bonier, hold it up from below: one clutching withered flowers while another appears to be pulling at a loose fabric of skin.But the drawing is not violent, representing instead people who have had presence in Mukhiya’s life.“I wanted to show how, even with their own problems, people hold on to us and support us,” explains Mukhiya.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114111128/637218629c7e80680e0baa3cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="2000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Elsewhere, a humanoid machine, complete with a dizzying assortment of cogs and wheels and four legs, looks at itself in a mirror, while its other hand carries a sleeping child.Mukhiya explains that this is simple thought exploration of collective consciousness: “I wonder if in future humanity, instead of evolving, transfers its consciousness onto machines.”The new pilgrim (2012) is more than a sci-fi study: it is also a commentary on present society where humans are encouraged to emulate machines and be mechanical and efficient.Apparatus (2019), a charcoal on paper explores the deficiencies of systemic rote in education. In what looks like an old, black-and-white class photograph, students and teachers sit in rows, dressed in blazers. A spool of thread twists around them, like prison bars.But here’s a twist: the students have nails and screws instead of heads. The heads of the teachers are hammers. This is a haunting piece that speaks for itself.At once spiritual and scientifically curious, Sapana (2015) is reminiscent of the films by Terry Gilliam where the lines between fantasy and reality are blurred to the extent that one seamlessly blends into another. A sleeping figure’s mind wanders in fragments to a dreamscape as a gust of wind blows a flurry of leaves that loop around the canvas before finally settling on another tree at the centre.So much is happening. In the right-top corner, a recently dispossessed bird takes flight with its eyes set on a floating well. A door opens as a cloud of smoke – or are they waves? – billow in the background. Bubbles fly about in silence, like atoms or little pockets of the universe.Mukhiya explains, “The physical universe outside us is infinite, we can see only a small part. And if we pause and look within, we can see that the universe in us, which is our consciousness, is just as vast and endless.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114111128/637218669c7e80680e0baa3djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1131" height="1750"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Mukhiya’s cerebral work is a testament to his lifelong fascination with life and the interaction between our consciousness and the socio-cultural stage. SAPANA is his 15th show overall and he is not trying to show life the way it is, giving shape to a creative process influenced by discourses on mental health, multiverses, memories. He was most recently part of the 'Crème de le Crème 2020' juried exhibition by Visual Arts Guild of Frisco in Texas.“I think a lot, no matter where I am or what I am doing,” the artist confesses. “And I do not draw or paint to simply draw or paint. I look for a story, an idea, I create narratives, some of which take years to incubate until the right form appears.”SAPANA is the result of this meditation, an explosive mix of strangeness and calm, like the notion of cosmological singularity or the Big Bang.SAPANAby Samridh MukhiyaSiddhartha Art Gallery, Baber Mahal RevisitedMonday - Friday: 11am -5pmSunday: 12pm - 5pmTill 24th May 2022

Ashish Dhakal

The imaginarium of Samridh Mukhiya

Nepal’s month-long cricket carnival ended on a sunny Saturday in Kathmandu with a final game in which the Lumbini Lions dominated the Sudurpaschim Royals with both bat and ball.&nbsp; The Royals were bowled out for an embarrassing 85, thanks to Namibian Ruben Trumplemann’s three wickets for three runs, and captain Rohit Paudel’s hat-trick in the eleventh over. Only opener Ishan Pandey’s 33 run-innings was of any note.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025121315120_ced9258f9503a03fe53760d5ff420136ea9cfbaf3001512399ec5cafeef25364.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025121315120_ced9258f9503a03fe53760d5ff420136ea9cfbaf3001512399ec5cafeef25364" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="909" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141232_0b712b438a97b49747029e4b3884b0eeba8ec0ff0bfbc5fd3d61cbb2002a16c2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251213141232_0b712b438a97b49747029e4b3884b0eeba8ec0ff0bfbc5fd3d61cbb2002a16c2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1345" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  The Lions came out with virtually no pressure on them, and Dinesh Adhikari’s 42 off 13 including 27 off the first over bowled by Dipendra Singh Airee won the match. Rohit Paudel came in to finish the match calmly, with 11 overs to spare, scoring two stylish fours and a six before holing out with the Lions on 83.&nbsp; The Lions took comically long to get the final two runs to win the game, losing one more wicket. But it was merely a matter of time, and a single ended the Royal’s misery.&nbsp; As dusk fell, the big fluffy lion mascot was on the field dapping up the Lions as red fireworks went off and Lumbini fans leaped from their seats in the packed stands.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141232_ba4c4fde1865c583cf324d253563a0fc96002c31e8381ee85850f71c67515ea9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251213141232_ba4c4fde1865c583cf324d253563a0fc96002c31e8381ee85850f71c67515ea9" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  This capped off an incredible run from the Lions who had finished dead last in NPL Season 1, and had only one win and three losses after four games. They won the remaining three, finishing fourth, barely qualifying.&nbsp; This meant that they had to play an eliminator last week against the Kathmandu Gorkhas and then a qualifier against the popular Biratnagar Kings, whose squad included Sandeep Lamichhane, Faf du Plessis, and Martin Guptill. They won both in style. For the Royals, however, this was the second disappointing final in a row after being the best team in the group stage in both seasons of the NPL. National team batsman Binod Bhandari had had an excellent tournament for the Royals, but was in tears at having come this far again and fallen short.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141228_a90fd0afaeec366416efe314464d6b1152bd9cca011346b77914c2037b6b156e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251213141228_a90fd0afaeec366416efe314464d6b1152bd9cca011346b77914c2037b6b156e" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1366" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  Despite the final being disappointingly less action-packed for the neutral viewer, the final marked the second successful execution of the NPL. The addition of seats and floodlights at the TU Cricket Stadium overlooking Kathmandu made evening games possible and improved the experience for fans.&nbsp; The floodlights also made for some gorgeous photography as the sun set behind Chandragiri, illuminating the Himalaya to the north in gradually fading shades of orange.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251205041256_280bea0db1d097c88d478f5ba7197b5e2faa05623ebf9c0438af46d85bdb891e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20251205041256_280bea0db1d097c88d478f5ba7197b5e2faa05623ebf9c0438af46d85bdb891e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="911" loading="lazy" alt="Cricket carnival NT"> <figcaption>Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  Adam Rossington’s 323 runs, including a century, and Sandeep Lamichhane’s 17 wickets were the standout individual performances across the tournament in the past month.&nbsp; The tournament brought out characters much loved by the vociferous crowd, including ‘Taklu’ Irish commentator Andrew Leonard who worked in a Dhaka Topi, British presenter Jess Crowe who donned a Sari for the final, and Chitwan Rhinos’ charismatic mascot Mr Gaida who entertained the crowd with enthusiastic nonstop dancing.&nbsp; The tournament was such a draw that the university grounds looked like a carnival with food and merchandise stalls. The capacity 10,000 stadium drew such a crowd that Kathmandu streets were relatively quiet on Saturday with people also watching the game live on tv at home.&nbsp; Kathmandu’s residents were genuinely delighted at being able to talk about <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/cricket-carnival">a Nepali cricket tournament</a>, and not about the Indian or English Premier Leagues. And while everyone appreciated the cricket no matter who was playing, fans showed up for their provinces in loud numbers.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251205041256_e96211da042ec3043940f2feca4cd59dd00351af41a4ca029169871f69f51957.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20251205041256_e96211da042ec3043940f2feca4cd59dd00351af41a4ca029169871f69f51957" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="911" loading="lazy" alt="Cricket carnival NT"> <figcaption>Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  The organisers having proven themselves, future NPLs may need more stadiums in other provinces, even better overseas players.&nbsp; Sambhav Sirohiya of the Kathmandu Media Group ambitiously tweeted that he believes that the league could already become the second most valuable franchise cricket league NEXT SEASON, especially if the government would loosen up its regulations of advertising, especially that of alcohol. Nepali cricketers and fans are now better prepared for the T20 World Cup in India and Sri Lanka in February, with the experience of playing in the NPL and with the access to world-class cricket talent and seeing how they go about excelling at the sport.&nbsp;

Lumbini gets the lion’s share

International Mountain Day on 11 December should inspire celebration, not cynicism. It follows &nbsp;a small but rare diplomatic win: the agreement at COP30 in Belém to hold a dedicated global dialogue on mountains in 2026, and to include mountain-specific indicators in the new climate adaptation framework.&nbsp;
A welcome shift, certainly. But the old narrative lingers — mountains are fragile, disaster-prone, eternally vulnerable. But the uncomfortable truth is that safe and environment-friendly development in the mountains is simply too expensive than anyone wants to admit.
To build a kilometre of two-lane highway in the Tarai costs Rs200 million. That same kilometre on a Himalayan slope with retaining walls, drainage, bioengineering, and landslide protection costs more than Rs1 billion. Add tunnels, viaducts or highways designed for minimum 80km/h speeds and that figure can easily triple.
This pattern repeats across all sectors. A 50MW run-of-river hydropower plant that costs $80 million in low-ling valleys costs four times more in the mountains. The headrace tunnels have to be longer, desanding basins must trap the silt, the access roads cost more than the entire project. And there is no way to prevent the scheme from being washed away by a glacial collapse flood.
Nepal's annual road budget is only Rs150 billion. It is scattered thinly across 753 municipalities, most of them perched on steep, unstable slopes. When resources are inadequate and political cycles are short, the incentives for corruption are predictable &nbsp;— shaving a mountain flank at 70 degrees instead of 45, taking a shortcut on drainage canals, skimping on asphalt thickness, or skipping the Gabion.
In high Nepal, the bulldozer is the engineer. We hang on the prayer that the monsoon will be merciful. July arrives, and reality returns. Mountains fall on roads, flash floods wash away swathes of expensive highways.
The entrance to the Siddhababa Tunnel in Palpa collapses yet again. The Nagdhunga Tunnel faces another landslide delay. The Melamchi headworks go under — again. Each failure costs more to repair than proper engineering would have cost when that infrastructure was built.
We are not just paying once. We the taxpayers are signing up for a subscription to disaster. The real fragility of Nepal’s mountains is of governance, not geology.
This is what the international climate conversation habitually misses. Mountain communities are repeatedly told to ‘respect nature’ and avoid linear infrastructure, often by the same countries proudly announcing new expressways and airports in their own countries.
Mountain people are not anti-development. They want what everyone else wants: electricity that does not flicker, roads that survive the monsoon, schools their children can reach in winter. What they lack is not aspiration, it is the budget required to build things safely that is not stolen by politicians and their crony contractors.
If the world truly wants to protect the Himalaya, Andes or Alps, and the billions who rely on them for water, the answer is not more romantic slogans about fragility of the mountains. It is concessional, patient financing that narrows the gap between cheap and dangerous versus expensive and resilient. And it is transparent government that spends that money wisely.
This means money for tunnels instead of unstable surface cuts. Money for bioengineered slopes instead of naked bulldozer scars. Money for hydropower built for 1-in-100-year floods, not 1-in-25-year budgets.&nbsp;
This is not charity. Mountain infrastructure safeguards global water, carbon, energy and biodiversity systems. It is a global public good, and should be financed as such.&nbsp;
In Syangja, small investments under the Climate Adaptive Equitable Water Management Practices have restored nine community ponds, protected recharge zones and increased dry-season spring flow by about a third. All of this for less than the cost of repairing a single kilometre of poorly built hillside road after the next landslide.
Our experience from the Subnational Governance Programme (SNGP) in some districts of mountains and plains show that when municipalities receive practical guidance backed by scientific research, they can scale these solutions with modest, targeted budgets. Local governments are not the problem — they are the missing link. &nbsp;
The tragedy is not technical incapacity; it is chronic under-financing of the most cost-intensive terrain on earth. Lets stop romanticising mountain poverty on 11 December, International Mountain Day. Let us retire the language of fragility that excuses inaction.
Mountains are not pleading for sympathy. They are demanding fairness: that the true cost of safe development in the world’s steepest geographies be acknowledged and shared. Until that bill is paid, the monsoon will continue to do the accounting, one landslide, one road, one abandoned promise at a time.
Ngamindra Dahal is a water and climate adaptation practitioner based at the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, Kathmandu.

The Himalaya is not fragile

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

My father’s son

People like myself were too young during the decade of the Maoist War to remember its horrors. We often wonder what life was truly like back then. Perhaps the closest we have come to experiencing a national crisis of that scale – with the protests, violence, curfews, and political maneuvering – was the GenZ movement in September. How did people cope? What did they fear? What was it like in the cities and &nbsp;villages? How was it that the king still held so much power? What motivated the guerrillas? And, how did &nbsp;ordinary people adjust and endure the war? My curiosity about the war that ended 20 years ago &nbsp;was met with a rollercoaster of emotions with Monica Rana’s debut novel, The Paths We Choose. The novel is not a retelling of events from the vantage of leaders, rebels. It is not about the violence, but a carefully curated perspective of ordinary people caught up in it. It is a glimpse into how the war altered or defined their paths. This is the 'People’s War' from the people’s own perspective. Readers are immediately invested into the lives of two central characters, the sister duo, Sumnima and Rita. The elder radiating from the beginning with her brave and cunning aura, and the latter, more timid and obedient, much of her time absorbed in awe of her sister. The writer’s language flows as effortlessly as the sisters’ strides up the hills to steal mangoes from Dhire Dai’s trees, only to race back down to Rato Mato, carrying us through their journey into adolescence. Amidst the rolling hills, mango trees, life is filled with laughter, adventures, and everyday banter, scenes so serene that they carry an unsettling calm that hints at what lies ahead. Village life is not all painted in romantic hues. The stark reality of poverty, subsistence, and contrast with the comfort of city living are never far away. Amidst these reminders, there runs a humbling truth: happiness once rested on small things, not on the material excess that define urban life. As the pages turn, the title begins to resonate: two sisters, once bound by the same bloodline, shared dreams, and the same roof, are caught in the crosshairs of war and forced onto separate paths. One by choice, and the other by necessity. The story unfolds with the seasons: the relentless monsoon rains, the scorching heat of summer, and a liberating winter that carries bittersweet truths. The year is 2001, as the insurgency intensifies. Against this backdrop, the cousins’ lives diverge. Sumnima is drawn into the rebels’ ranks to 'fight for equality and freedom', while Rita is uprooted, carried across distances, and placed in Seto Bangala as a helping hand among the higher-ups, in her family’s desperate attempt to secure her a better life after their village is reduced to a 'ghost city' by violent attacks. There are betrayals and beginnings, high palaces and humble hills, royals and rurals, identity and ideology, loss and lament, distance and discovery. Through upheavals, tears, and struggles, one thing remains constant: both sisters wonder about the other. They care. They long to reconnect. They hold fast to the dream they once shared to open a guesthouse in their village someday. A dream to simply live with no fear. To be free. To be happy. And, to be together. The writing illuminates vital themes: innocent people caught up in strife, the vast chasm of class from royals dining on silver plates to villagers back home hiding their last grain to save it from looters. And discrimination so stark it was as if people carried labels on their foreheads, marked by caste, skin colour, and gender. The sisters eventually reunite, but their journey is not an easy one, and what lies ahead is far from the future either of them once imagined. One might romanticise it as fate, or might recoil at the harsh reality Monica Rana lays bare: it is often the innocent who bear the heaviest burdens of war. Civilians are trapped between warring sides, enduring hunger, displacement, and violence through no fault of their own. Wars continue to rage across the world. Though the novel does not particularly focus on exposing the horrifying depths of war crimes, it remains a timeless reminder of what the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish once said: “The war will end, and leaders will shake hands. The old woman will keep waiting for her martyred son. And those children will keep waiting for their hero father. I don’t know who sold our homeland, but I saw who paid the price.” &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213031240_2f7c62e392a430082c1627719e014f82b857118e226299e1590d74503387ae93.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251213031240_2f7c62e392a430082c1627719e014f82b857118e226299e1590d74503387ae93" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="The paths we choose book review"> </figure>

surrealism

Between the sacred and everyday

The imaginarium of Samridh Mukhiya

Lumbini gets the lion’s share

The Himalaya is not fragile

My father’s son

The war between people