<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/639058739c7e80680e0ce1a4jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"/><figcaption>Chinimaya lama with her two children. All photos: ANITA BHETWAL</figcaption></figure>Chinimaya Lama, 30, cannot walk up the slope to fetch water for her livestock. Her lower abdomen hurts and she has difficulty sitting down. At home she looks after her husband and five children.She went to a health post six months ago, but the staff there did not even have painkillers. Lama has a uterine problem and cannot afford to go to a city hospital to have it treated.Every few years at election time, political leaders campaigning house-to-house come by to the village of Syaule promising to upgrade its health post. This year, too, the candidates have trooped in, but residents of this scenic village with 52 households have heard it all before.Lama’s neighbours Pemsang, Rammaya, Dilmaya and Kanchi Tamang all have uterine problems like her, caused by multiple pregnancies, hard work in the fields and poor nutrition. None of them have access to diagnosis or treatment.“Candidates asking for votes would have got a much better response if they had also come up with health camps for women and brought medicines for us,” adds Lama, bundling grass for her cows.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/639058779c7e80680e0ce1a5jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>As in other parts of rural Nepal, there is little excitement about the 20 November elections in Syaule, which is a 4 hour drive northeast of Kathmandu. There is a look of quiet dejection and much grimacing, when residents are asked if they will vote.“From before I was born, we have faced lack of water, proper medical care and joblessness. When these candidates come asking for votes, I just get furious,” says Wakab Tamang, 80, scowling through his wrinkles.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/depending-on-independents/">Depending on independents</a>, Shristi Karki<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/6390587b9c7e80680e0ce1a6jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="372" height="355"><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/6390587d9c7e80680e0ce1a7jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/639058809c7e80680e0ce1a8jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Syaule villagers have therefore collectively decided to boycott the 20 November elections. Says Chinimaya Lama: “I would rather go to my daily job and earn a few hundred rupees to buy food for my children instead of wasting my time voting for leaders who do nothing for us.”Residents of the adjacent village of Sanghachok have also decided not to vote. Mishri Lama, too, has faced water scarcity for three generations.“They tell us we will get water but it is only because the election is here and they want our votes,” says Lama. “They act as if we are family at election time, and then abandon us. No, we are not voting.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/639058849c7e80680e0ce1a9jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1122"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Springs going dry due to over-extraction and climate change is a problem across Nepal’s mid-mountains, but is especially acute in ridge-top settlements like Syaule and Sanghachok.Dhan Bahadur Tamang spent thousands of rupees to fit a tap a few years ago, only to find that the spring had gone dry. No politician came to help. “I won’t even open the door for these candidates when they come by, I’m sick of them,” he adds.Last year’s monsoon floods destroyed the main road from Chautara, and there has been an effort to repair the landslides which children have to make a dangerous traverse every day on their way to school and back.“For me the word politician is synonymous with inaction,” says Mishri Lama.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/639058889c7e80680e0ce1aajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Pema Rinchi Sherpa had actively campaigned in the 2017 election for Mohan Bahadur Basnet who is now contesting from Sindhupalchok-2, but after repeatedly being denied a meeting with the man to discuss road and water issues, he has learned his lesson.“I won’t be voting for these leaders who just want power in Kathmandu,” he says. Basnet is contesting again from the governing coalition against Sher Bahadur Tamang of the opposition UML.In the village of Dumre between Sun Kosi and Indrawati rivers, many residents do not have land ownership rights despite having lived here for generations owing to a random border division three decades ago.People here have homes in Sindhupalchok but many got their citizenship from Kavre. Two brothers from the same family have to go to different constituencies in different districts to cast their votes.“We have been living here from the time of our forefathers but we have fallen between the cracks,” says Khadga Bahadur Pahari (pictured below). “It does not matter how many times we voted in the past, no one has ever heard us. So we won’t vote at all this time.”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/6390588b9c7e80680e0ce1abjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="997">Dumre is home to 60 Majhi fisher families who have lost their livelihoods because of an illegal sand and boulder mining operation owned by a businessman with political patronage. They too are not going to bother voting this time.Masali Majhi cannot fish anymore, and has lost her income because of the ‘crusher’ operation. She says: “What is the point of voting for these people who do not care for us?”Ward chair Roshan Giri was elected in the local polls in May, and Sunday’s elections are for federal and provincial assemblies. UML candidate Sher Bahadur Tamang says he will resolve the fishing crisis by building a reservoir on the Sun Kosi and stopping illegal sand mining.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022120710128/6390588f9c7e80680e0ce1acjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>But these promises do not impress many locals who are boycotting the polls. They may not know all the candidates, but they know they have not performed in the past. They are punishing their inaction by exercising their right not to vote.By doing this, they are also rejecting younger candidates and independent hopefuls. Locals do not seem to be very impressed with the choice of alternative candidates either, or much informed.The governing coalition’s Mohan Basnet says he will amend the law if required if he wins the election. He says: “I will help the fisher people if I am elected. They should give me one more chance.”But at least in these villages of Sindhupalchok it looks like the residents feel they have already given the candidates one too many chances.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/election-climate-in-nepal/">Election climate in Nepal</a>, Shilshila Acharya<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/battle-of-ballots/">Battle of ballots</a>, Shristi Karki

Anita Bhetwal

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Dejected voters reject polls

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111414110/63723c439c7e80680e0c960cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"/><figcaption>Illustration: DIWAKAR CHETTRI</figcaption></figure>On Sunday in Gorkha, Pushpa Kamal Dahal, flanked by Narayan Kaji Shrestha and former comrade-in-arms Baburam Bhattarai, led a procession of supporters to file his candidacy for federal election on 20 November.There was pomp and fanfare as Bhattarai, who currently represents the constituency in the House, swapped it for Maoist support for his daughter’s candidacy in Kathmandu.Bhattarai had earlier announced he would not contest elections, saying he was taking a break from being “a lifetime parliamentarian”. So it was ironic that he handed over to another serial parliamentarian whom he had fallen out big time: Dahal.The Maoist leader had previously contested from Kathmandu and Rolpa in 2008, Kathmandu and Siraha in 2013, and Chitwan in 2017. This time, he wanted an ironclad constituency to fulfil his dream of becoming prime minister a third time — and proved once more that there are no permanent friends nor enemies in politics.The 5-party coalition formed to oust former Prime Minister KP Oli following the power struggle between Oli and Dahal ushered in an era of break-up and make-up politics in an election year.The 2022 election has made partners out of once archenemies Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba and Pushpa Kamal Dahal, splintered  powerful communist parties, and brought Dahal and Bhattarai back together. And it has led to Nepal’s two primary Madhes-based parties switching allegiances between the coalition government and the opposition a day before the deadline for FPTP registration.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepals-parties-forge-new-pre-poll-alliances/">Nepal’s parties forge new pre-poll alliances</a>, Shristi KarkiThis is the end of ideology. It is all about power and how to get there. Nepali politics was always a revolving door of same handful of tried, tested and failed elderly men. The revolving door is still turning, and multiple prime ministers are waiting for another stint — party credo, election agenda, or principles be damned.It is a sign of the times that once-progressive alternative politician Rabindra Mishra now has a leadership position within the royalist right RPP, while Kamal Thapa of the Hindu-right RPP-N is set to contest the election in alliance with Communists, under the UML’s election symbol no less.Nepal has been a three-party dictatorship since 2013. Now it is a dictatorship of three old men. Smaller parties aspire to be king-makers too, and want to strike deals with the Nepali Congress, Maoist Centre or the opposition UML.There are no party primaries while selecting election candidates, and the process of selecting tickets is at the arbitrary personal discretion of the three honchos.So, the NC’s Minendra Rijal and the UML’s Bhim Rawal of the UML were refused tickets just because their party leaders treat them as greater threats than candidates from other parties. Swarnim Wagle of the NC was reportedly refused a ticket because the First Lady doesn’t like him.The Proportional Representation system was designed to include the excluded and marginalised. But the list is made up of close allies who needed to be accommodated, cronies and relatives. Only 9% of the candidates for direct elections are women, despite a Constitutional provision that parties have to field 33% females. The proportion of indigenous communities and Dalits is even lower.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111414110/63723c469c7e80680e0c960djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="780" height="345">Nepal’s richest men seem to have decided it is better to use the money that they used to donate to parties to run for elections themselves. The candidate list also included jailed individuals, which the Election Commission eventually rejected, as well as figures tainted with corruption.A total of 2,526 candidates have registered their candidacies for the parliamentary polls, out of which 1,583 are from 57 political parties. Independents make up 37% of candidates for both federal and provincial polls, with some of them being rebel candidates denied tickets by their parties.In all this, there is a silver lining. First-time voters and young Nepalis have begun to take an interest in the political process, mainly because of the rise of the independents. The outcome of this election will be decided whether they actually go to the polling booths on 20 November.As with the independents who won mayoral races in May, young voters seem to think that the only way to clean up Nepali politics is from the inside. But vote banks, block votes by ethnicity and caste still count because the mainstream parties have the organisational structure.An ageing and unprincipled establishment unwilling to hand over to a new generation has made it abundantly clear once more that any attempt to transform Nepal’s political mechanism from inside will be fiercely resisted. But something's got to give.Shristi KarkiRead more: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/rule-of-the-lawless/">Rule of the lawless</a>, Editorial

Shristi Karki

3-party dictatorship

<img width="1050" height="751" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108151124/636a676c9c7e80680e0599d8jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>On 11 December, the Prime Minister and Cabinet's office tabled the 'bill to amend and integrate laws relating to the constitution and operation of Nepal special service' in the parliament secretariat.Prakash Panta, member of the National Assembly from the opposition Nepali Congress has requested the parliament to take the Special Service Bill (SSB) back. With allegations that the bill restricts the fundamental rights of citizens, there is concern that provisions of SSB will violate citizens’ fundamental right to privacy.NC parliamentarian Radheshyam Adhikari says this is a direct threat to  citizens' fundamental rights like privacy and freedom. "This bill shows that the government is against democracy and an open society, and does not believe in transparency and accountability. It will allow the government to snoop on anyone it does not like, and use the information to threaten or blackmail them.”Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/censuring-censorship/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Censuring Censorship</a>, Editorial The SSB will allow the National Investigation Bureau (NIB) to collect any information on anyone without a warrant. The Act's Section 10, subsection 6 states: ‘In the course of information collection or counterintelligence, the Bureau can monitor, intercept, or record the conversations of people or organisations under suspicion or monitoring, made in public, or through any other audio visual or electronic medium.’The Bill also defines interception as the act of monitoring communication channels and gathering data. Though the Bureau has in the past spied on individuals, it is not authorised by law to do so. Now, the bill gives it the right.The Bill makes it compulsory for people to give up any information an  investigation officer requires, and if they refuse the investigators can acquire the information by spying on them if necessary.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepal-has-press-freedom-but-no-freedom-after-press/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Nepal has press freedom, but no freedom after press, </a>Shashank GautamCritics say this has created the fear of misuse and breach of privacy in the name of investigation. It could also lead to leakage of information and violate fundamental freedom in direct contravention of the constitution.Article 8 of the Constitution states that information regarding a person’s residence, property, documents, statistics, correspondence, or character, cannot be violated unless otherwise required by law.Former Chief Justice Kalyan Shrestha says the bill increases the chance of misuse of power. "There should be clear provisions about where the right to privacy can be breached with monitoring and where it cannot. And there should also be provisions for legal redress if someone's privacy is breached when the government uses this right," he says.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/gagging-the-press-in-installments/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Gagging the press in installments</a>, Sewa Bhattarai Constitution expert Bipin Adhikari goes further, stressing that the law will endanger the country’s democratic polity itself. "A person at the highest level of government may use these provisions to undermine the system itself," he says, referring to how the former king Gyanendra Shah used Article 123 to take power.There is also precedent set by the former head of the Centre for the Investigation of the Abuse of Authority Lokman Singh Karki, who in 2013 operated a state within a state and regularly tapped the phone calls of 293  critical politicians, security officers, civil society leaders, judges and journalists. When Parliament decided to impeach him in 2016, the phone tapping was prominent in the list of reasons.However, there are some who say the danger to democracy has been blown out of proportion. The former head of the National Investigation Bureau Deviram Sharma says, "This law is not meant to snoop on ordinary citizens' phone conversations. It intends to monitor terrorism, antinational activities,  and the activity of dubious foreigners. A draft of the bill was actually prepared 17 years ago, and it has been tabled with timely amendments."Read also:<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-undermining-free-expression-hrw/" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> Nepal undermining free expression: HRW</a>In fact, the draft bill does state that the law is needed to control ‘spying, armed insurgency, coup, inciting others to violence, aiding foreign countries or organisations, breaching the harmony between people of different classes, races, ethnic groups, religions and communities, secessionism, spreading hate and violence, armed and underground groups, illegal activities on border areas, etc.’But that is precisely what worries rights activists, who say that the definition of whom the state is allowed to spy on is so vague and broad that anyone in authority can use it to snoop on political or business rivals, the media or critics of the government.Government across the world have intelligence agencies that are given powers to spy on their own citizens, but these powers are strictly limited by law. Even so, some democratic states like India, the US and UK have made it  easier for intelligence agencies to spy on their citizens, especially when it comes to terrorism. But even there, there have been widespread complaints of misuse.Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/creeping-control-over-the-press-in-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> Creeping control over the press in Nepal,</a> Ajay Pradhan The government tried to pass a similar law to allow surveillance in the last days of the Panchayat in 1990, citing heightened activity of foreign spy agencies. But the Panchayat system collapsed, and with it the first attempt to allow the government to spy on its citizens.The law was discussed again during the Maoist war, and a draft was even drawn up in 2001, but it was not tabled. Even today, snooping on private citizens is barred by law, but that has not stopped the National Investigations Bureau and others to snoop on calls and messages.Security agencies in Nepal regularly use call/sms data in their investigations, which is actually illegal. Some have even made private information public. After Advocate Baburam Aryal and four others filed a case against the practice in February 2016, then Chief Justice Kalyan Shrestha and judge Devendra Gopal Shrestha had ruled that a person's right to privacy was "entirely private and fundamental" and limited the practice.Read also:<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/ifj-asks-nepal-to-revoke-media-gag/" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> IFJ asks Nepal to revoke media gag</a>The verdict stated that since there was no law which allowed security officers to tap phone calls or look at sms, the officers would have to take permission from the District Court before doing so."That is a temporary provision. In the long term, there needs to be balance between individual's right to privacy and the state's need to investigate. A full-fledged law is the permanent solution," says ex-Chief Justice Shrestha.The NIB was previously under the Home Ministry, but in February 2018 it was brought under the purview of the Prime Minister’s Office and Cabinet Secretariat. Although the Bureau’s main duty is to safeguard national security,  the proposed bill expands its area of work to include human trafficking, drug trafficking, illegal wildlife trade. Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/a-creeping-coup/" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> A creeping coup,</a> Editorial"The objective of the Bureau is to protect the national interest. Giving it unlimited powers increases chances of misuse, especially since departments under the PMO are not accountable to any other government department," says Hemanta Malla, former DIG of Nepal Police.There is still time for parliamentarians to debate the Bill and change its provisions if required, but the government appears to be intent on using its majority in Parliament to ram it through. Experts say the bill should have provisions for legal redress, and provisions against transfer or sale of information collected. NC MP Radheshyam Adhikari concludes: "The way it is reads now, it lets the government pry into people's lives, intimidate them and threaten to disclose their private details if they don't obey." "The government is pushing through a law that is above the constitution. The law will grant extraordinary powers to the Bureau any time, which are to be used only in emergencies. But there is not enough awareness in civil society about this. Yes, security forces should have powers, but there should also be check and balance. The law should provide for investigation of the Bureau, as government investigation will not be enough." <figure><img width="640" height="516" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108151124/636a676e9c7e80680e0599d9jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img width="640" height="514" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108151128/636a67719c7e80680e0599dajpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>"The Bill is meant to restrict undue activity from foreigners. For example, then chief secretary of the government Lilamani Pudel made a 9-point code of conduct about officers meeting foreigners. That angered them. Baburam Bhattarai had promised to not transfer any secretaries, but transferred one of them within 18 days of becoming PM. We need to stop this kind of meddling. The current protests against the Bill is instigated by such foreigners."

Spooking Nepalis by snooping on them

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

Looking at Nepal from Venice

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

A new normal

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