For the decades that he was an underground guerrilla commander, and even when he took his oath of office after being elected prime minister in 2008 and 2016, Pushpa Kamal Dahal never wore Nepal’s official dress.&nbsp; But that changed in 2022, during his third swearing in. He came in a daura suruwal and black Bhadgaunle topi, an attire that Dahal himself described as a symbol of Nepal’s feudal past and a national identity foisted on the country’s ethnic minorities. Since then, he has pointedly refused to wear anything else during official events, and even when he attended Indian prime Minister Narenda Modi’s own third oath-taking as prime minister last month. Considered national attire for men until 2011, the dress was removed from its title along with gunyo cholo for women by another Maoist Prime Minister Baburam Bhattarai in 2012, saying Nepal was too ethnically diverse to have a national uniform. But the daura suruwal is back. Most senior politicians and bureaucrats wear it with a grey Western-style jacket and black topi to work, even though it is neither suited for the heat of the Tarai nor the freezing cold of the high Himalaya. For the public, the dress is a go-to fit for marriages and social gatherings.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240706040728_77b79c351551aab57b0a2fa09aa82748cd6f9fa1c1ab91b7d5f85089660c0f9e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20240706040728_77b79c351551aab57b0a2fa09aa82748cd6f9fa1c1ab91b7d5f85089660c0f9e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1729" height="1333" loading="lazy" alt="Daura suruwal page layout NT"> </figure>  No one really knows when the dress originated, or why it looks the way it does. Most agree it originated during the Malla era in Kathmandu Valley. Others say it is geopolitically fitting that Nepal’s national dress has suruwal bottoms that resemble Jodhpur riding pantaloons from India, and the daura is similar to bhoto shirts worn in Tibet. The western jacket and waistcoat were added during the Rana era. “Examining sculptures and rare photographs of the Malla era show that the present day daura suruwal has its roots in dresses worn at that time,” explains historian Tri Ratna Manandhar. “There are photographs of Newa merchants in Bhot (Tibet) wearing similar clothing towards the end of Malla reign.”&nbsp; In bronze sculptures at the National Museum in Chhauni, Malla kings are also seen to be wearing dresses that look like the daura suruwal. The only difference seems to be that the kilt-like skirts that the daura evolved into were longer then. The kings also wore the pagadi headgear similar to what Rajput royalty in India wore. &nbsp; “It was during the Rana regime &nbsp;that the dress became official,” Manandhar continues. “When King Surendra died and his grandson Prithvi Bir Bikram (father of King Tribhuvan) ascended the throne in 1881, the official invitation had an order to wear jama (similar to daura), suruwal and pagadi.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240705130724_374ca96cb62826ab0f8a817a04afbc6cfdcf5ab41780cb4098f0f031e3120a17.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240705130724_374ca96cb62826ab0f8a817a04afbc6cfdcf5ab41780cb4098f0f031e3120a17" data-rendition-name="original" width="2145" height="3905" loading="lazy" alt="Daura Suruwal Illustration"> <figcaption>Illustrations: LAXMI TAMANG</figcaption> </figure>  The famous photo of a garlended King Tribhuvan emerging from a plane after his exile in 1950 is the exact version of the present day daura-suruwal. History professor at Tribhuvan University Purushottam Lochan Shrestha says culture is constantly evolving, and the dress has changed accordingly. “The officialisation of the dress took place during Tribhuvan’s reign &nbsp;and ministers started wearing the daura suruwal,” says Manandhar. Although the daura suruwal was worn by ordinary people in Kathmandu Valley, it also became the official attire of the ruling class with the western-style waistcoat, jacket and belt added.&nbsp; King Mahendra’s slogan ‘Ek Raja, Ek Desh, Ek Bhasa, Ek Bhes’ (One King, One Nation, One Language, One Dress) became the rallying cry for symbols of Nepali nationhood during the Panchayat.&nbsp; Daura suruwal with waist coat (called ‘istakot’ in Nepali) also became semi-official in summer, but today is mostly the uniform of restaurant servers. When it is hot, some officials are even seen in half-sleeve daura (also called labeda).  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240705130712_ccd3a388ba3635a293d78e29a0e0d834bf467a2b0fbcbee8dba2a73201a7ba97.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20240705130712_ccd3a388ba3635a293d78e29a0e0d834bf467a2b0fbcbee8dba2a73201a7ba97" data-rendition-name="original" width="996" height="687" loading="lazy" alt="King Tribhuvan Daura Suruwal"> <figcaption>King Tribhuvan wore a version of the present day daura-suruwal.</figcaption> </figure>  “Back then, everyone in Kathmandu would wear daura suruwal with istakot and black topi,” recalls Hera Bahadur Shakya of the Rastriya Daura Suruwal Tailors shop, which has been stitching the dress for the past 70 years. Most people made one daura and two or three suruwals to last them the whole year.&nbsp; The attire has evolved with modernity. The second inner suruwal has been mostly abandoned, the pants have elastic waistbands instead of strings, pockets have been added, and some even have flies with zippers. “The choice for fabric has also changed,” says Moon Prajapati of Namuna College of Fashion Technology. “Traditional suruwal were loose fitted and roomier around the waist so it would be easier to work in the fields. But today they are tighter.” The daura suruwal today is worn mostly by state officials, or during marriage and other festival rituals, and by Nepalis who want to make a national statement&nbsp; These needs have kept some tailoring shops open, even though many others have closed, either because the skills have died with their dressmakers, or the lack of demand. &nbsp; <h2>The Nepali Babu Fit</h2>  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240705130712_41be1f2c628fb388658b43c645c4409d1a214311b37d67319a1c17e61e396271.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20240705130712_41be1f2c628fb388658b43c645c4409d1a214311b37d67319a1c17e61e396271" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1373" loading="lazy" alt="Daura Suruwal model NT"> <figcaption>Model: AAYUSH RAI / Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  King Mahendra wanted the daura suruwal to be a symbol of Nepali nationhood, but it was the song 'Ma hu Nepali Babu, Made in Nepal' of the movie Nepali Babu that celebrated the dress as something that should be proudly worn. But while the dress retains some of these sentiments, many find it is an obsolete vestige of an outdated past, and does not reflect Nepal’s ethnic and cultural diversity.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024070514070_453cdf14f3651f519900b6ef3ad0086501fc2015b357ba1af09562e312d88f28.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="2024070514070_453cdf14f3651f519900b6ef3ad0086501fc2015b357ba1af09562e312d88f28" data-rendition-name="original" width="3000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Daura NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024070514070_487765646369ce40f0ed3083a6be81e3920a085c12910caa99d7742bde047d80.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="2024070514070_487765646369ce40f0ed3083a6be81e3920a085c12910caa99d7742bde047d80" data-rendition-name="original" width="3000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Suruwal NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024070514070_277bdd897fcec739b65e682784a8638f4e5ad603dcdbacb8bdc0e4f606b5d4d1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="2024070514070_277bdd897fcec739b65e682784a8638f4e5ad603dcdbacb8bdc0e4f606b5d4d1" data-rendition-name="original" width="3000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Coat NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024070514074_155a6f73f4f38718605983befae71d782c7e7a3d4662917c76036e8ce340595f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_7" data-image-id="2024070514074_155a6f73f4f38718605983befae71d782c7e7a3d4662917c76036e8ce340595f" data-rendition-name="original" width="3000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Istakot NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024070514074_5f1324bef5528c11bc4bee672777b055f9d7534c0fa210576267c2d4607132b7.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="2024070514074_5f1324bef5528c11bc4bee672777b055f9d7534c0fa210576267c2d4607132b7" data-rendition-name="original" width="3000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Patuka NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024070514074_ec7c2e60ed6d6cf70e284d5e9bb973d1237543e0359cdf05e0d99b704c18ec04.jpg" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="2024070514074_ec7c2e60ed6d6cf70e284d5e9bb973d1237543e0359cdf05e0d99b704c18ec04" data-rendition-name="original" width="3000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Topi NT"> </figure>  <h2>Bharat Basnet, Tourism Entrepreneur</h2>  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240705130720_4a0339ce762c9625cded9868b709fbcd833cc1d2823950ade635c3fea35e4768.jpg" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="20240705130720_4a0339ce762c9625cded9868b709fbcd833cc1d2823950ade635c3fea35e4768" data-rendition-name="original" width="750" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Bharat Basnet"> <figcaption>Photo: THE EXPLORE NEPAL</figcaption> </figure>  You won’t catch tourism entrepreneur Bharat Basnet not wearing a daura suruwal. At social gatherings, at home or work, and even during visits abroad, he proudly dons his trademark attire. Born in Khotang, Basnet grew up wearing kamiz suruwal which is still his regular preferred home wear. But as he got older and expanded his businesses, he grew fond of daura suruwal. “In the tourism industry, we talk a lot about preserving our culture but we wear western clothes,” says Basnet, 66. “So, after a while, I got tired of the hypocrisy.”&nbsp; A staunch fan of Prithvi Narayan Shah’s legacy, Basnet’s shift to daura suruwal was a strategic move. Nepal’s founding king wrote the Divyopadesh as advice for his young kingdom which highlighted the importance of self-reliance. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Basnet’s daura suruwal are all made of handwoven Nepali fabric, even the jacket. Basnet feels the dress is the most practical and comfortable day-to-day wear. He says, “For me the daura suruwal reflects who we are as Nepalis, and makes us truer to ourselves.”&nbsp; <h2>Bhusan Dahal, Media Personality</h2>  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240705130716_f672e52047fe2c28013bb191fee9db7b29a3606e89b11be48f3454518b2dfb40.jpg" data-media-id="editor_11" data-image-id="20240705130716_f672e52047fe2c28013bb191fee9db7b29a3606e89b11be48f3454518b2dfb40" data-rendition-name="original" width="751" height="866" loading="lazy" alt="Bhushan Dahal NT"> <figcaption>Photo: NEPALI TIMES ARCHIVE</figcaption> </figure>  Although a more occasional wearer of daura suruwal, Dahal considers the dress “fantastically comfortable wear”. He began wearing the national dress in his early twenties when he started working at Nepal Television. Except for formal events, the dress was not a compulsion back then, but Dahal preferred the attire. “Whenever there’s an invitation that requires formal clothing then I tend to go in a daura suruwal in a sober colour,” says the 57-year-old Dahal, who now hosts the Bravo Delta Show on YouTube.&nbsp; Sometimes he wears a suit, but finding a matching shirt, tie, and pocket square is a hassle. In the case of daura suruwal, if it is pressed and hanged, it is wear-and-go. Dahal says the dress gives him an identity, it is recognisable and unique. For the complete look, Dahal prefers a Nepali printed dhaka topi, which he wears even with the kamiz suruwal. He says, “I have developed a fetish for the topi.” &nbsp;

Pinki Sris Rana

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दौरा सुरुवाल

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

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

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

In a democracy, governments come and go. But Nepal had become so entangled in the triangular affair between Sher Bahadur Deuba, K P Oli and Pushpa Kamal Dahal that it was becoming impossible to tell who was canoodling with whom.&nbsp;
All three had long since abandoned their party ideologies. Staying in power was all that mattered as they turned Nepal’s democracy into a kleptocracy.&nbsp;
For the past at least 20 years, we have warned them to mend their ways. Democracy had to be rescued from the hands of such kakistocrats. Waiting to pounce were monarchists and anarchists of every ilk, outcast Maoists, and supporters of a leader jailed for fraud. Tycoon Durga Prasai said his rally in March was to restore a Hindu monarchy, but he was just a temporary royalist whom even the ex-king spurned.&nbsp;
All this converged into a perfect storm on 8 September. Commandos shot and killed 19 innocent young people outside Parliament, the anger boiled over into targetted arson and vandalism the next day. The government fell, and Sushila Karki was elected interim prime minister through Discord.&nbsp;
With not just their monopoly on power but also their very lives in danger, the triumvirate was at first in total shock. Then came conspiracy theories and an inability to gauge the rage from decades of misrule.
Nepalis had assumed that after September the old parties would see their folly, and step down to hand over the leadership to a new generation. But 10 weeks later, there is no sign of any act of contrition.
In the NC, Sher Bahadur Deuba has sidelined the caretaker he himself appointed, Purna Bahadur Khadka, and is active again as the party prepares for a showdown in its Convention next month. The UML is proceeding with its own General Convention, where Oli is fully assured of a third term as party boss. Dahal sees no alternative to himself in his newly-forged Nepali Communist Party and is eagerly eyeing becoming prime minister for the fourth time.&nbsp;
The three leaders who everyone had hoped would finally retire have reincarnated. It is obscene for obsolete politicians to still hanker for power after all that has happened.&nbsp;
SHOCK AND AWE
The three leaders who have been prime minister a dozen times between themselves want to cling on, but this is not abnormal if we apply <a href="https://www.bbc.com/audio/play/w3cszmjz" target="_blank">Elisabeth Kübler-Ross</a>’ theory of the five stages of grief. The author of <a href="https://www.google.com.np/books/edition/On_Death_and_Dying/GlSq0AEACAAJ?hl=en" target="_blank">On Death and Dying</a> was analysing how people with terminal illness deal with their situation, but her 5-stage theory may be applicable to the way heads of the NC, UML and NCP are reacting to the shock of being overthrown — first with denial, then anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.&nbsp;
On 9 September, distressed by what had befallen them, the three were in total denial. Then began the stage of anger. Oli ranted in public about a conspiracy to install an ‘unconstitutional’ interim government, blaming the Nepal Army, and vowing not to take part in election even while preparing for it.
The NC has decided to participate in elections, although it has to first sort out its internal power struggle. The NCP and the RSP have united with smaller parties and are actively preparing to campaign. GenZ groups are speaking in different voices, with Sudan Gurung and Miraj Dhungana openly trying to unseat an interim government they themselves installed.&nbsp;
The parties are now in the third stage: bargaining. Instead of asking himself in hindsight what he should have done, Oli wants Parliament restored but has also registered his party for elections. The UML won't allow elections unless the government lifts restrictions on Oli’s movement.
Likewise, GenZ groups are putting up conditions for supporting polls: arrest Oli and others. Karki is single-mindedly focussed on elections, even if it has to be put off by two months. The Army would also like polls on time because it does not want a repeat of September when it had to intervene to form the interim government.
If Karki’s 6-month mandate ends without elections, and if by then the GenZ’s trust in the interim government collapses, then UML and NC could plan to press for an all-party election government, restoration of Parliament which would then dissolve itself to appoint a new prime minister that Karki would also be agreeable to.
The current state of affairs makes it difficult to imagine elections being held on 5 March — mainly because polls would be incomplete without the three main parties taking part, and it is unlikely they would participate in polls that they are certain to lose since they have not reformed themselves. Amidst these ifs and buts, the role of the Army will be critical.&nbsp;
The fourth stage of grief is depression, and that is what will happen to the parties when the reality of their unpopularity finally hits them. Only then will they finally accept their fate, realise that it was all their own doing, and perhaps reinvent themselves.
Kübler-Ross said the five stages did not necessarily have to be in that order, or that sometimes there may only be three phases, which may be applicable to the parties. What is for sure is that the three leaders are in no mood to atone for their sins.
Rabin Giri is an editor with <a href="http://nepalnews.com/" target="_blank">nepalnews.com</a>.&nbsp;

suruwal

दौरा सुरुवाल

A new normal

Things eventually work out

My father’s son

Stages of denial