On the night of 10th August 2025– technically the 11th – I got out of Kathmandu airport and rushed to Thimi, where Prajita Shrestha was performing the Nagacha Pyakhaan. Woven around the story of Hindu mythological characters, Bhasmasur and Mohini, the dance is exclusive to Thimi in Bhaktapur.&nbsp;
Prajita is only the fourth girl to dance as Mohini. In the past, male members of the community played the role. In a move away from the traditional mode where men perform female roles in religious dances, women are now being inducted in some performances.
When Prajita was first asked by the guthi to perform as Mohini, she instantly said yes, before even asking her parents’ permission. “My heart leapt with joy the moment I was asked. I knew I was meant to do this,” she says.&nbsp;
She first performed in August 2022 and was nominated again in August 2025 to perform. Social media reels of her dancing that gained wide popularity seems to have endorsed her as the crowd’s choice, even though she was actually stepping in to fulfill a sudden vacancy due to unforeseen events.
When I arrived in Thimi that night, Prajita had already been on her feet for a long while. Her face lit with mischief, she went from alley to alley, flirting and motioning at Bhasmasur, the antagonist of Nagacha Pyakhaan.
The story has it that the Hindu god Visnu, disguised as the enchantress Mohini, enamours and prompts the demon Bhasmasur to self-destruct. The old dance form, exclusive to Thimi, was revived in 2019 and women dancers were gradually introduced. Some other cities like Bhaktapur and Kirtipur have also introduced women in religious dance and music, recently.
Prajita had seen Nabina Prajapati perform as Mohini ahead of her and says it worked as an inspiration when she was asked. Her parents did not disapprove of her intent because her brother, Kiran had already been performing the Bhaila dance and they were familiar with the processes. The Bhaila, dedicated to Hindu deity Bhairav, was revived about a decade ago, and is performed by young boys in Thimi.
All religious dances in the Kathmandu Valley were traditionally done by men. Prajita is one of the few women who have stepped into unchartered territory. The 24-year-old, a student and communication worker, has also set the stage for more girls to follow in her steps.
“I know they say that Newa women do not have freedom, but we have to understand that not letting women participate in these dances was also a way of protecting them,” she says.&nbsp;
As Prajita and the troupe stepped up on the raised stone platform daboo at Thimi thoroughfares that night, men in the audience cheered: “Wala, wala!” It’s here!
Unfazed, Prajita maintained her smile and her composure, her arms flailing in the night air, her feet tapping the ground. “When one performs as Mohini, the crowd jeers and teases. It might be because in the past men disguised as women to perform and they got teased. So when our grandmothers were saying no to this, they were trying to keep us from that exposure, which they did not think was safe or appropriate.”
Newa traditional dances are said to be exclusive to male dancers for many reasons. The weight of the headgear and masks is maintained as key, the others being the endless hours of practice, night time performances and long hours of fasting, and often drinking of alcohol and even blood in some instances, required as a part of tantrik rituals. And there’s menstruation taboo, and the distance women are kept at from Nasaa dyaa, the deity of charm and grace.
As I followed Prajita around that night, I was already starting to feel the night weighing down on me. But she sprinted from tole to tole, bells jingling, a pair of ankle brace hugging her bare feet, her green skirt flaring as she pirouetted. The red velvet blouse threw a blush to her face and the peacock feather on the crown of her head fluttered as she tilted her head to look into the face of Bhasmasur, the beckoning of desire.
Being in the role of Mohini has changed many things for Prajita, who is also a radio journalist with Radio Kathmandu, 92.1.&nbsp;
“I have newfound confidence to do my work after I participated in the dance. I also do cultural activism, so doing the dance helped me gain a new perspective and also connect with new people,” she says.&nbsp;
While the joy of dancing can be for oneself, Prajita says she also thrives in the adulation she receives from the audience, many of them her relatives and neighbours.
“From the time I took on the role, my father hadn’t been very involved in what I was doing. But the night of the performance, when I saw my father in the crowd, I felt elated,” says says. Like so many little girls who thrive on validation from the elders in the family, Prajita in that moment wanted to make sure she lived up to the new social responsibility she had embraced.&nbsp;
That act of being drawn into the circle because of presence and participation is an important experience. Men in patriarchal societies are already part of that circle, while women are on the margins because of the social status they are expected to maintain.&nbsp;
But breaking the boundary to be included in the circle requires the opening up of that circle up by the male members of the community. Arjun Shrestha, Nirajan Shrestha, Birendra Shrestha, Rabi Shrestha are some of the names Prajita mentions when speaking of her dance gurus. They are men who formerly performed the Nagacha Pyakhaan and are now transferring the legacy.
“In the past, I used to be like an outsider, a spectator to the dances that were performed in Thimi. But after I participated, people in the religious dancing circles knew me and I am allowed to watch practice sessions for other dances, even stay out late with the dancers, mingle with them,” says Prajita. “I feel accepted.”
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people in Pratibha’s life.

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Suburban Tales

Dance like a deity

On September 9th, Dashrath Rai from Kantipur TV was reporting from the Lalitpur Satdobato area, when the station’s van with the camera crew, was stopped by protesters twice. “Kantipur Murdabad” the men shouted, and some other men in the crowd showed up to lead them away to make way for the TV van. As someone who spent about 14 years at KTV, I worried for my former colleagues. On September 8, cameraman Shyam Shrestha Dai had been injured during the shooting at the parliament, where 19 protesters were killed. The death toll would rise later to 72. As the reports of arson from different parts of the city came in, I texted my former colleague Rupesh Shrestha, Deputy News Chief at KTV, who was reporting from the streets. Stay safe! He said: Huss, didi. Three hours later, he was injured in an attack at KTV. The station was preparing for the 2PM bulletin when the attacks began. First, they pelted stones, then stormed the office. “We had been alerted of an imminent attack, but we were busy working and didn’t have the time to get away,” Sabina Karki, Presenter and Reporter, says. “I didn’t panic at first and thought we would be able to leave.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150928_94e82aa9ccb550abce0f8f6b50c2f29c592cd7fdf51adaf4113b6e9dffc780c9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250915150928_94e82aa9ccb550abce0f8f6b50c2f29c592cd7fdf51adaf4113b6e9dffc780c9" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> <figcaption>All photos: RUPESH SHRESTHA</figcaption> </figure>  Soon after the attacks began, the staff tried to get out of the building. By the time they arrived on the ground floor, it was in shambles. “I thought of hiding in the toilet on the ground floor, but my colleague Surendra Kattel said, if this floor is gutted, we’ll never get out. So we went back upstairs and to the studio building [using the bridge that connects the two buildings]. We alerted colleagues at the News Control Room (NCR) who had no idea what was going on outside,” Sabina says. The staff looking for cover, converged outside the NCR and tried different exit doors but the doors didn’t give. News Chief Bijaya Poudel had to smash the glass door of the studio building so everyone could get out. He was hurt in the process. “Once outside, we saw people had big sticks, knives and someone even had a gun. I felt like I was in a movie scene or perhaps a war zone. We were so helpless. We didn’t know what they would do to us. We stood still,” Sabina recalls. “And then a stranger grabbed my hand and said get out of here and dragged me by the hand and left me outside the office gate.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150928_5554643519fe1870bbd2852a9fa233f3dcee5a0ba74db4140550dca6f3358610.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250915150928_5554643519fe1870bbd2852a9fa233f3dcee5a0ba74db4140550dca6f3358610" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> </figure>  Some others were able to leave with Sabina. They pushed and jostled past protesters to get away from the building but when they tried to check on colleagues, armed men stopped them and made them leave. They ran past Kantipur Hospital and escaped into the inner lanes, navigating scenes of vandalism on the streets. A police station had been attacked. They sought shelter at a random, private home where Sabina waited for almost two hours and then shifted to a colleague's house to shelter for another couple of hours, before she was able to get home that night. “I couldn’t process anything. After I reached home, I felt scared.” Rupesh, who was working on a special editorial when the attack happened, was one of the last to leave the station building. As someone who had been on TV a lot, covering some major political events in the recent past, he became an easy target. “I had been doing live TV, so I was still wearing my studio attire and that might have made it easy for them to identify me,” Rupesh explains. “I was leaving through the gate when they started to hit me. My glasses fell and punches rained down on me. Some colleagues put their palms together and asked the vandals to let them go. They also told me to say sorry. And I said, why must I apologise when I haven’t done anything wrong? They hit me some more. I raised my arms in surrender.” They pulled his studio jacket off him, then yanked off his tie and dragged him away from the building, from where he was finally allowed to go. Rupesh found safety at someone's private home, from where he tried to contact colleagues, who had all fled in different directions. His phone died and it was 7:30PM when a colleague was finally able to help him get home. The attackers kept returning until midnight in installments, destroying more property and torching the building. Rupesh has a fractured nose from the attack and his face was swollen for days. His body is sore. His car was reduced into a skeleton. For the first two days, he did not want to speak to the world. He could not wrap his head around the violence. “At first we weren’t sure whether to transmit or not. Everything was gone and it felt like an impossible task. I had no confidence, I felt scared. How do we broadcast from the ashes, a masan? But then I thought, if we don’t do our jobs, who will?”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150928_a4d508f9f974663a72b13c90c834e650b9a1b9fbde121de87b2f587a7edce45b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20250915150928_a4d508f9f974663a72b13c90c834e650b9a1b9fbde121de87b2f587a7edce45b" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> </figure>  The team sat down and worked out what they needed to get on the air again. Since the news studio building had been damaged, they decided to transmit from the scene of the wreckage. They retrieved just enough UPS batteries for one operation. Four devices with a newsroom network system support the current function. Battery back up goes out as soon as bright lights use them up and the teleprompter does not work. When KTV started broadcasting from the debris, some called it a stunt, and others called it cool. “Currently, salary and insurance issues persist but the owners have said they will address them,” Rupesh says, who has spent 19 years with Kantipur, punctuated by two brief departures and has seen many incidents of vandalism. “We hope incidents like this will not repeat.” During the April 2006 street protests, hundreds of people had stopped outside the Kantipur complex in Tinkune to clap and show gratitude for the good journalism it had done. I worked there at the time and I remember looking out the window, tears of gratitude streaming down my face. The same establishment received a different kind of treatment this time. Attack on the media is an attack on democracy and this calls for probe followed by action.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250915150932_90fe8832022207cc856bfa9fe2525605f05f13594f9ecadbe5f47b0e84e0d4bb.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250915150932_90fe8832022207cc856bfa9fe2525605f05f13594f9ecadbe5f47b0e84e0d4bb" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Kantipur TV’s September storm"> <figcaption>Sabina Karki and colleagues retrieving their belongings. Bijay Poudel, far left, in the photo.</figcaption> </figure>  While media houses are also about their owners and their advertisers, they are mostly about the journalists who run them, giving up their lives to uphold high journalism standards. Kantipur Media Group has had many journalists over the years, who have taken stands for the nation and its people. “We already know this wasn’t an attack by GenZ. This is the handiwork of people with personal vendetta. We already know the protest was infiltrated. This is the work of those who didn’t understand journalists are also people just doing their jobs,” Sabina says. When Sabina came back to the office after the curfews were in place and things had calmed down, she wanted to sit down on the rubble and weep. “Journalists operate on a small salary. Some of us have lost our life’s savings in this attack.” The KTV staff is traumatised. Sabina says she is frightened of loud sounds and strangers. “But at times like this, it’s better to work than to just wait in distress.”

Kantipur TV’s September storm

"Why are adults sexist?” my ten-year-old nephew, Paartha, asks in response to a scene where the parents threaten to marry off Asha Karki, if she fails her exams. I’ve been reading to him from an illustrated young adult fiction series by Anbika Giri. In the story, Asha, like many <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/half-of-nepal-s-girls-may-drop-out-of-school?a=">girls in Nepal</a>, has to juggle between household chores and schoolwork. By the time she is done at night, she is too tired to study. In the mornings, she is always late for the school assembly because of chores. And as if the burden of household work wasn’t enough, there is constant threat from her parents to “<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/too-young-to-marry">marry her off</a>” if she fails-- the idea of marriage, dangling like a dagger over her head the entire time. Asha is compliant to the daily needs of her family over her own desire to study. The elders do not appear aware of her aspirations as a schoolgirl, but it is her brother who shows up, becomes an ally. The boy starts to take up responsibility for household errand and is present for his sister in times of distress, eventually helping her to win the accolades and recognition she is deserving of. The series comes in the form of five books: Mother is Mighty, Nisha’s Life Lessons, Lakshu’s Silence, Superhero Sister and Payal Goes to School (आमाले सक्नुहुन्छ, नाक कसरी ठाडो हुन्छ, लक्षु किन बोल्दिन, मेरी दिदी र पायल पढ्न जान्छे). The series was completed in 2021 and was first published in Nepali -- they are taught at schools in Kathmandu and elsewhere. The English edition of the novellas, translated by our friend <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/of-crows-and-people">Prawin Adhikari</a>, hit the bookstores in June 2025.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250706080724_c9d3bf0c738b0b14e36ffe31fe82eb9317aa5b6e090687dd47f8e2f3b6cf89ef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250706080724_c9d3bf0c738b0b14e36ffe31fe82eb9317aa5b6e090687dd47f8e2f3b6cf89ef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="On life lessons"> <figcaption>Photo: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</figcaption> </figure>  In each of the novellas, the story pivots around a schoolgirl, either as the narrator or the protagonist. She is faced with a range of challenges-- from the yearning for a bicycle to the agony over confronting social afflictions. And in all of them, Anbika creates <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/educating-your-sons-will-protect-your-daughters?ref=blog.togglecorp.com">male allies</a> in the roles of family members, teachers or neighbours or government representatives. Her<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/she-is-the-story"> female characters </a>as mothers, sisters, friends, students are resolute, self-aware, astute, and feisty. If they are cast down because of life’s circumstances, they get up, pick their bicycles and pedal again. Anbika had started writing these books in 2017, when she and I used to be colleagues. She would disappear one weekend and would show up at work on Monday and announce she had sort of finished writing a novella. That’s right, one of the books was written in exactly three days. I recall her saying she wanted to create a series about how <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/educating-girls-to-break-cycle-of-poverty" target="_blank">girls in different parts of Nepal </a>commute to school, which appears in a different series. Her books for children all hinge on the idea of bringing books about Nepali girls to young readers. “I wanted to write these books for my daughter, Awani. I wanted to write books that are gender sensitive,<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/placing-nepali-women-first-past-the-post"> female-led</a>, and represent cultural diversity,” says Anbika. “Awani has never had books like that to read. Female leads do not exist in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/for-children-about-children">Nepali literature for children</a>.” Like many other children in Nepal, Awani too grew up on books by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/with-love-labour-and-writing">international writers</a>. And while the beauty of that is that a wide range of context is presented to children, which helps build empathy, but they lack the local context. And that is the gap Anbika tries to fill through her books. “I wanted to put into context some important questions. How can we change ourselves as humans? How can we have empathy, gain realisation and evolve as individuals? I wanted to write stories that carry morals,” she explains. “I wanted to introduce politics to children in the simplest way.” Anbika’s girl characters aim at becoming prime minister, local leader, doctor and riding bikes when they grow up-- challenging the traditional portrayal of women’s desire for beauty, love, marriage and home. She introduces topics like <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/can-nepal-end-child-marriage-by-2030-gmx92qf3">child marriage</a>, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/menstruation-is-normal-period">menstruation</a>, casteism, bullying, property ownership, economic independence and the local governance system. And none of them are easy subjects to broach when writing for children.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250706080728_2bad0254f87d5f89cb31a1476a5079d68838a157ad4a0349ec6e619274bcf7fc.jpg" data-media-id="editor_12" data-image-id="20250706080728_2bad0254f87d5f89cb31a1476a5079d68838a157ad4a0349ec6e619274bcf7fc" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1483" loading="lazy" alt="On life lessons"> <figcaption>Photo: HIMAL</figcaption> </figure>  “I’m a political writer and I have my own politics, and it shows in everything I write. I think of gender as my politics. And it shows in subtle ways in the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/illustrating-innocence">children’s books </a>I write,” says Anbika. She says she hopes for the books to also be read by parents. “I thought of creating something that both adults and children can read, comment on.” The stories are mostly set against the rural Madhes backdrop. “Some have questioned me about the romanticisation of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/life-and-livelihood-in-remote-nepal">village life</a>, but that kind of life also exists and needs to be seen and understood,” she says. Some scenes slide into what could be difficult to read for some children, such as the mention of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/why-has-progress-in-saving-women-s-lives-stalled">maternal death</a>. There is no sanitised version of life in these books. But there is triumph and hope. Anbika says the details of village life and the core sentiment of the book have been earnestly transferred to the English iteration, something she had always hoped for when she had started writing the books. “Thanks to the thoughtful and sensitive translation by Prawin Adhikari, the dream has taken flight. I’m deeply grateful for the care he’s brought to every word and nuance. I chose him to translate these books because he understands the context of my stories.” Prolific and also deeply passionate about her projects, Anbika wants to eventually write her books in English. That passion is embodied by her characters. “My characters in Ama le Saknu huncha and Payal Padhna Janche carry books, dreams and strength on the handlebars of their simple bicycles. They are brave, determined, and ready to ride against the wind.” Each book has been illustrated by a different artist, some depictions better than the others. The books’ covers bear dreamy images by Anamika Gautam-- the one with a schoolgirl on a bicycle, a common favourite between Paarth and me. Paartha, was very impatient when we read the parts where the key characters went through difficulties. One of the questions he asked on repeat was why do adults treat girls unfairly, reminding me of the deep responsibility we bear towards children.&nbsp; When we had finished reading Superhero Sister, I told him: “That unfair treatment needs to change, so girls can live as boys do.”

On life lessons

At the start of May, Bunu Dhungana brought some things in the belly home to Nepal. When she had curated the first iteration of the show in 2023, in Delhi, she had hoped she would be able to bring it home, and she did. The exhibition opened to the public in Kathmandu at Nepal Art Council on 2 May and closes on 16 May. The exhibition brings together works by Asmita Badi, Irina Giri, Shradha Devkota, Tripty Tamang Pakhrin, Shristi Shrestha, Ujjwala Maharjan, and the curator, Bunu Dhungana herself. And there’s an installation of yours truly. In the step up to the show, Bunu organised calls for the artists. Tripty joined at odd hours from her newfound home in Syracuse. As did Shradha from her home in London. Ujjwala joined, from her many different trips to India and other places in Nepal.&nbsp; The rest of us joined from wherever we were in Nepal during call hours, probing the unknown, most of us unsure what we wanted to present to the public. The only thing we had clarity on was the theme Bunu had suggested: mother-daughter relationship. And we were to exchange letters with our mothers. Some of us wrote letters to our mothers from the comfort of our homes, some from Pokhara, or whichever town we were in at the time of writing-- sending it by snail mail, which thankfully, hasn’t gone obsolete yet! Our mothers responded to us from their comfort nooks, each one, taking it up seriously like little girls responding to school assignments. Standing before the wall that has the mothers’ letters at the exhibition, one is easily struck by the basicness of the stationery used by the mothers to write to their daughters. They use pages torn out from a notebook, loose examination sheets or even an abandoned diary. So simple and so straightforward. And in that, powerful. Like the truth of the uterus that is all mothers. In the letters, their emotions take center-stage, as maternal emotions do, coming from a place of wanting the best for their daughters-- to protect them, and to keep them happy and healthy. Daughters’ desires are not too different from that of the mothers. But they come in more complex forms and through different mediums. They write an entire journal on these feelings, write pages and pages, enough to fill a room, weave poems and songs from the rhythm that connects the phantom umbilical cord to the mother. Daughters compose images-- some of oil and smoke, some of suffocation, of stillness, of water and ice and of open spaces and of moments of strife, like something heavy being dragged up a stairway by a lone woman.&nbsp; “While not all the works were made exclusively for the show, I did create new pieces - paper made from a letter I wrote to my mothers, and a series of linoleum cut prints. These processes made me reflect more deeply on the role of repetitive, physical labor in my practice and how it relates to the everyday labor of my mothers,” says Tripty, who documents work dedicated to her two mothers. And there are bright hues in gouache, where mothers and daughters are arrested in moments of fun and chit-chat or even just being at the table watching Tiktok. There’s abandoned sound in a dark, spotlit corner, which takes the listener through a journey of contemplation and upheavals. And there are stories from the kitchen, the base for most mothers in the world. For many of us, it is sometimes impossible to separate the fragrance of spices from our mothers or to tell the spices apart from the scent of our mothers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250514140528_1dd1b5f95e6230f49afb3b084b88542b3fbcc6a454548a3eee60ee85724f7215.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250514140528_1dd1b5f95e6230f49afb3b084b88542b3fbcc6a454548a3eee60ee85724f7215" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="some things in the belly"> </figure>  some things in the belly is an intimate exhibition, and as the show got underway, visitors were seen returning as if to collect something they had left behind. Many kept coming back to read and to write. And that was precisely what Bunu had wanted to create-- a safe space. Visitors sat down, read, wrote letters to their mothers, listened, watched, laughed and wept. Ujjwala says: “The [letter-posting] wall, how it’s growing and how people are reading and writing, that’s the most interesting thing for me. You don’t know how people connect and what hits who. But I’ve seen people tearing up at the letter-writing section. You forget that it does reach the people it needs to reach.” Bunu’s aim when she was taking on the challenge of curating the exhibition was to also create a circle of sisterhood, by bringing together women to work together on a theme. And in the process, she has also managed to help the artists involved create and learn from one another and to be deeply touched by the familiarity of sentiments. “Each piece is so different and that is the beauty of this exhibition that has come together. Tripty’s and Shradha’s work, the experimentation was very inspiring for me and the process itself...what has come out is powerful,” explains Ujjwala.&nbsp; She adds: “They are visual artists but the poetry in it is so beautiful. Shristi’s work, I fell in love with. The care of it. Ashmita’s work, too. To textual people, the importance of a desk and sitting down, the tactileness of books that inspire us. What would mom write? What would their lives be like...the imagination is dreaming along with our moms-- the amalgamation of dreams.” In one of her journal notes to her mother, Ujjwala mentions she can’t remember how long it has been since she gazed carefully into her mother’s face. One pauses to read that sentence again. How long since we did that? At the heart of the stories in the exhibition is also intergenerational trauma and mother-daughter conflict-- how mothers and daughters tug in different directions, even when they’re chasing the same love.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250514140528_d150acebaa02da545dd3c92db7c1202aef73e60d600537106ec0db40dc84cbfc.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250514140528_d150acebaa02da545dd3c92db7c1202aef73e60d600537106ec0db40dc84cbfc" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="some things in the belly"> </figure>  When Hishila Yami and her daughter Manushi visited the exhibition with little Yugeen in tow, we caught up on this topic briefly. Manushi said: “We hold so much in our hearts and who do we tell it all to? So we end up dumping it on our mothers. Because who else is there for us as mothers are? “We have such complex relationships of love with our mothers,” Bunu said.&nbsp; All loves have their own equations. The love daughters feel for their mothers is raw and tender and full of familiarity. Everything daughters want for their mother is the same they would want for their daughter, so in that, we serve an endless knot.&nbsp; Then there’s the question of language. What language really serves as a bridge in the gap that exists in mother-daughter relationships? How do we make up in language for the absence of words that can ever convey the sentiments? And so the process of creating some things in the belly has been something like reforging mother-daughter relationships in the crucible. “Each one of us has shaped our practices, and stepped more fully into ourselves. Watching that unfold has been such a privilege,” says Shradha. “I hope, as a collective, this exhibition has offered something real for people to hold onto, reflect upon, or carry with them.” Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/our-mothers-silences">Our mothers' silences</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar some things in the belly Till 16 May Nepal Art Council, Baber Mahal

Dear Maa,

I’ve been stalking a man since 2013. Twelve years is a long time to pursue someone. I first saw him at a busy bar in Pokhara, where I was hanging out with my girlfriends. In a space crammed with youngsters, his long, flowing grey beard set him apart. James (Jim) Robinson looked more like a man out of Hogwarts School.
And I knew I had to speak with him!
And that set off many years of wooing, if you may. When I first saw him, I kindled a conversation and I sat next to him for a few minutes. I found out that he had been coming to Nepal since his first visit as a young hippie man.
Did he have a number I could call him at or email? Jim said he didn’t do emails or cell phones.
In December 2016, when I was in Pokhara, I inquired about Jim at the bar he frequents. I left a note with my number on it asking Jim to call. I went back the next day to ask if Jim had received the note. He had. But there was no call.
Looking for Jim in Pokhara had become a ritual-- my friends found my pursuit funny. If I happened to be there in winter, I would show up at the bar, wait, leave a note sometimes. There was no response.
One time, during the pre-Covid era, I met Jim on a green tourist bus heading to Kathmandu from Pokhara. He needed to call a friend in Thamel and I offered him my phone for use and also its number. He pocketed the piece of paper and left it at that.
In 2023, I was at an old bakery in Thamel to meet a girlfriend. I ran into Jim there and introduced myself again, quickly wrote my number down: Can I give you my number?
&nbsp;And no, he didn’t call.
In 2024, I ran into Jim in Pokhara at the Literature Festival. I reminded him of our many half-meetings. This time, I didn’t offer my number. Then he asked me if he could have my number and also said he had also joined Facebook recently and could now keep in touch.
As I wrote down my number and email for him, I told him it was the third time I was giving him my number. I think I set Jim off on a guilt trip, because then he started to email, finally agreeing to meet me.
Last week, we met at the same old bakery in Thamel. The cafe was fragrant with the fumes of hot coffee and the joy of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Jim and I found a table at the topmost floor. He said he was willing to do an interview if I was still interested. But I found that the scribe in me had become replaced by something of a quiet listener.
I asked Jim about the many fascinating, expensive gems-studded rings on his fingers. He gave me details about how each of them had come to find a place on his fingers. He also explained to me the journeys of the gems on his necklace. Jim has been collecting the stones since he first showed up in Nepal in 1968 as a 23-year-old.
When the hippie movement made waves in certain parts of the world in the mid-1960s, Kathmandu wasn’t untouched by its ripples. Youth from the west, driven by their quest for freedom, peace and love, showed up in Kathmandu among other places, making Jhochhen (Freak Street) their home. Jim was one of them.
On his way to Nepal from the UK on his first trip, he stopped in Israel where he worked as a tomatoes and cucumber picker and then spent some time in India before arriving in Nepal.
The journey-by-land spanning across weeks, was deliberate and purposeful. As opposed to it, he now takes the flight from the UK every year in December to arrive in Nepal, and goes back at the start of spring. While in Nepal, he spends his time pretty much the same way he did many years ago-- except, instead of smoking up and chilling with fellow hippies, he now drinks beer and hops bars to find the best music.
Jim, like some of us, thrives in solitude. Much of his time in Kathmandu and Pokhara is made up of that. At bars, he speaks with strangers and has a good time swaying to live music.
Why have you been coming back all these years, I ask him and he says: Because I love Nepal!
When he arrived in 1968, he saw Swayambu and was blown away. “I had never seen anything like it! This beautiful temple on the top of a hill!” Jim explains how in no other place in the world, had he seen monuments of different faiths alongside each other. When he saw it in Nepal his mind was blown to never be the same again, he says. He knew he had to keep coming back.
Back in the day, Jim stayed in Freak Street, the hippies’ hub. The amenities were basic but sources of entertainment were accessible there. “The only place you could buy cakes was the Snowman. All other places sold Nepali food. And there was just one souvenir shop that sold khukuri and that kind of stuff.”
Jim says it hasn’t been easy to follow the changes in Kathmandu over the years, but he doesn’t mind the change as much as he minds the way people have turned to technology. He isn’t a fan of cell phones and he doesn’t carry one. But his daughter (who he visits in Canada once a year) has gifted him an iPad so they can stay in touch.
Apart from spending lone time in Nepal, Jim also shops for silver rings, sometimes buying them for himself and sometimes taking some back to the UK to sell them.
His now off-white beard, leaping down his face and his colourful rings flashing around the room as he moves his hands when he speaks, manages to catch the attention of a Chinese tourist seated at a nearby table. Later, as we are leaving the bakery, she catches up and shows a photo of Jim on her phone: Is this you? I took your picture in Pokhara. I love your rings!”
&nbsp;Then she asks: Can I take a picture with you?
Jim says no at first, and then says okay, maybe. As I say goodbye and walk away, I smile knowing he’s no longer denying people the opportunity to interact with him. Perhaps someday, he will eventually spill the story of his life.
Jim turns 80 this month. I had asked him how many more years he intends to keep coming back to Nepal and he said: “Let your life be like a leaf cast upon the ocean. Go with the flow.”
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people in Pratibha’s life.

Chasing a nomad

Rameshwor Bhaiya was a mailman and a chowkidar rolled into one. He was stationed at Loreto College, Southfield in Darjeeling for many many years, until he retired.
I learned the other day from a WhatsApp group that he recently passed away at a hospital in Siliguri after battling throat <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-other-pandemic-cancer">cancer</a> for a long time. I had forgotten all about him until I saw the message.&nbsp;
Rameshwor Bhaiya was a petite, agile man, always taking mails to the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/is-nepal-entering-the-post-post-office-era">post office </a>and fetching them back. He was always busy, walking with brisk, soft steps, sometimes stopping in the lunchroom for a glass of water, the last one sitting down to eat because the mail had to be done in the first hour.&nbsp;
For his physical stature, I cannot recall how he managed his guard work as a chowkidar, but he must have been good at that too, because he kept some 500 girls safe everyday.
Rameshwor Bhaiya always wore his hair oiled and combed back with a side parting, neatly. His postal bag slung over his shoulder, the strap falling across his chest was bulky on some days and some days it would be shriveled up and swinging in the air with the lack of weight.&nbsp;
He wore gray or khaki sweaters mostly and a jacket the same tint. His trousers were in the same shades too, and once in a while, he would spot a colourful shirt -- there was a maroon one with a fading collar. The V of one of his V-neck sweaters had come undone and looked like a Y with a short tail instead and I don’t remember that he ever fixed it.
I do not even remember his full name. But we all understood from a way of understanding caste and religion in South Asia that he was a Hindu, North Indian man who had moved to<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/Connecting-dots/Darjeeling-and-the-idea-of-Nepal,944"> Darjeeling</a> for work. We never understood where his family was because he lived on campus.
The Southfield building was known to have once been the summer palace of a Maharaja of Burdwan, and by then had become Rameshwor Bhaiya’s home. He lived in a small room on the ground floor of the building, close to the lift. Sometimes, he would point at the lift and explain how the pulley worked. It had to be pulled by men to move the lift users up and down the two-storey durbar. But as chowkidar, Rameshwor Bhaiya was the sole nighttime occupant of that house.
In the morning, he woke up to the nuisance of monkeys from the Mahakal temple right above Southfield. And the morning would get noisier as the cleaners came in and then the girls and the teacher would start to trickle in, first slowly and then in quick steps and in full numbers as the bell for the first class went off.
My roommate Meenu and I were sincere letter writers. We wrote to parents, to friends, to admirers sometimes. Sometimes, to boys we crushed on. (I mean, I did.) Meenu was always more careful about how she put her feelings out there. But she was the one always doing couriers home. Her mother would send her parathas and achar and ladoo by courier, all the way from Phuentsholing, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/small-bhutan-dreams-big">Bhutan</a>, our midnight snack. So, Meenu maintained a cordial relationship with Rameshwor Bhaiya.
Our hostel was at the Convent in Springfield and we were only allowed outings on weekends, which meant mails had to often wait a whole week until Saturday. On Sundays we couldn’t mail. That was when Rameshwor Bhaiya would come to our rescue. If we needed to send a mail to the post office or courier something on weekdays, we would give it to him and he would make sure it was done. For us, the Indian postal service’s efficiency thrived on Rameshwor Bhaiya’s existence.
When we returned to hostel life from our holidays, some of us would bring little gifts to the staff. I used to bring pustakari from Nepal for Rameshwor Bhaiya. He said once that it hurt his mouth to suck on them but he still enjoyed it. He was more of a connoisseur of paan, but he appreciated the gesture.
The campus was always bustling with staff, but when I think of Rameshwor Bhaiya letters instantly come to mind. There was the post office and the smell of mail and the feeling of rippling open an envelope and thrusting the fingers into it to reveal its content to the self.&nbsp;
Once or twice, I had surprise letters from a secret admirer and I was worried they would be discovered. No, having a boyfriend was not encouraged. In fact, we were often pre-emtively reminded of the student who went on a walk to the mall road with her boyfriend and was gang-raped by strangers, an incident Late Peter J Karthak records in one of his novels.
So, we led sheltered lives. Mama’s girls and Daddy’s girls, all huddled together in classrooms, heads buried in textbooks, but our minds wondering who to borrow the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/14-books-to-read-gift-love-this-valentine-s">next romance novel</a> from. Cloistered, free of the world’s strings, we bubbled with hope for all kinds of things. Mostly, for what our <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/scoring-a-better-future-for-nepals-soccer-girls">future as women</a> in the real world would be like.
And in his own little way, Rameshwor Bhaiya made lives possible for us because he brought us letters, documents, exam results, notices from the University of West Bengal.
“Is there a letter for me, Rameshwor Bahiya?” Sometimes he would joke and say no even if there was one. Usually there was no mail for me at Southfield. But there was always Rameshwor Bhaiya with his postal bag -- the bag of hope.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

The man who came bearing letters

Frangipani always finds me. The first time, they were strewn over my pillows at a Colombo hotel. I had no memory of seeing the<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/when-flowers-become-feed-for-the-livestock"> flowers </a>before and I fell in love with the fragrance, the fleshy petals, generous just so. Then I never saw them again until I started my life in Chiang Mai. I lived in a gated community, where the avenues were lined with frangipani trees. When Mona and P’Champ took me around house hunting, I zeroed in on houses that had frangipani trees. I eventually had to settle for one with a wall of tall strands of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/bardia-s-birds">birds</a> of paradise, instead. But there were frangipani trees the moment I stepped out of my gate lining the roads, meeting me everywhere I went. They felt like friends.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025021609020_59326ead694a156d5c60523aab070983909e0eabae52b46a8d488fb1629434b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2025021609020_59326ead694a156d5c60523aab070983909e0eabae52b46a8d488fb1629434b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Frangipani"> </figure>  Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/we-used-to-be-flowering-trees">We used to be flowering trees</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar In November 2024, they found me in Goa. I showed up in Pilerne, a village in the north of Goa, to spend alone time at my friend V’s stowed away house. The idea was to learn to make peace with myself. And to finish unfinished assignments. I cannot remember where I picked such a habit, but since the time I was a child, I’ve always had to bury myself in solitude. By the time I had grown into a woman, the need had sort of leveled up and found me sitting at cafes buzzing with strangers for hours, and/or holed up in strange hotel rooms so I could just be. One time in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/a-villa-in-thamel">Thamel</a>, the receptionist looked at me searchingly. He was probably not used to girls renting rooms for a day to be on their own. And now, well into my 40s, the question still gets thrown at me. In Goa, at V’s house, the caretakers of Casa Pilerne were curious about me. Why had I chosen to come live in isolation? How did it feel to be the sole resident in a colony of fifteen houses? What did I do for a living? Where had I come from? Where would I go next? On my first day in the village, the housing manager had told me to strictly follow a bunch of rules. Not to leave the house alone after 5PM. Not to loiter in the village alone as feral dogs were likely to gang up on me. Not to wear shorts. No, I did not wear shorts during my walks. Even in Goa heat. And I tried to keep to the 4-5PM walking slot. On my first day, my legs were aching for a long stride and took me further than I had planned, all the way to the nearest highway. The road is scenic, and is a reminder of some scenes from a Bollywood movie Dear Jindagi, lined with coconut trees on both sides, making way for the golden fields.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250216080252_85f64b65f2393d85fb848a851810b642d5b0cf9f8a66cb96fb80bd59ee6b2ac5.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20250216080252_85f64b65f2393d85fb848a851810b642d5b0cf9f8a66cb96fb80bd59ee6b2ac5" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Goa 2"> </figure>  &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250216080252_0ad78340790912dd155ab81c3d529f8a460ad71e27068828f0e5bf175b52cc3b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20250216080252_0ad78340790912dd155ab81c3d529f8a460ad71e27068828f0e5bf175b52cc3b" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Goa 3"> </figure>  I stopped when I saw birds, to listen, took pictures and walked some more. When a car started to follow me, I didn’t realise. Three men in a white car, they rolled down the window and tried to make signs at me and talk to me. I tried not to look at them and I kept walking ahead, my skin crawling and the air suddenly feeling very hot and humid. I walked on until a bus came towards us from the other end, and then a scooter with two boys riding on it yelled and waved at me. Then the car made a U-turn and left. I just walked on. So fast, I didn’t even stop to glance at the man from Rukum, who ran a small convenience store by the road and had earlier sold me a nail-cutter.&nbsp; The feral <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/kathmandu-s-street-smart-dogs">dogs </a>probably caught sense of the fear emanating from my body. And then it happened. Five of them came at me at once! They barked, snarled and surrounded me. And at this point, I just froze and stood very still. The only people in sight, a couple seated at the bus stand, did not leave their seats to come help me. But an elderly man, carrying heavy iron tools, the kind you use to work the roads, showed up and shouted at the dogs. Chal chal! Chalejao! I shouted my loudest. He brandished his tools at them and they dispersed. He told me not to worry and to keep walking. And I walked at the same pace, barely breathing until I reached the casa. I learned that day to bring a stick with me during my walks. It scathed the dog-lover hubris in me to be wielding a stick to protect myself from dogs. But it was the only way. The <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/repairing-rural-roads-nepal-earthquake,3985">village roads</a> were mostly deserted. Every few metres, I was likely to run into a passerby returning from work or school. They would glance at my stick and look away-- I probably became known as the woman who walks with a stick. Pilerne is a lovely old Portuguese settlement with large, sprawling colonial era houses, and frangipani trees everywhere. Most of the old houses have been abandoned as the residents have mostly moved to Portugal, following a fading bloodline. The incidents with men did not end with the car stalkers. I would encounter a young man near a church every evening, playing on his mobile phone, trying to make conversation with me. Then a man would follow me while calling out to me. And a small group of men on motorbikes would park at the same place every evening and watch me. And everytime, I would step up my stick game. I would stop by a big tree outside the colony, to find a better stick. Everytime I needed reassurance, I would wave the stick in the air a little. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/memories-of-a-country-in-transition">Memories of a country in transition</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar In two weeks of walking the same road to and fro five times to keep up with my steps count, I had learned by heart the nooks and corners of the Pilerne road, the colour of the houses, the smell of the trees, the voice of a certain man from Pondicherry who lives in a yellow bungalow with two frangipani trees that bear pink flowers. And I had learned by heart, the smile of the gardener who used to be out tending to the garden with a massive frangipani in the front yard. He became, sort of, my only acquaintance in the village.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025021609020_97320ff0451ed625718c01246ce96cb5fb1613eac2bc9b3d80543acd0f5433be.jpg" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="2025021609020_97320ff0451ed625718c01246ce96cb5fb1613eac2bc9b3d80543acd0f5433be" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Frangipani trees"> </figure>  By the time I was ready to say goodbye to Pilerne, we had started to wave at each other. And I was no longer as terrified of walking in the village.&nbsp; Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

No tips on walking here

If you grew up under the influence of Bollywood films, it is likely they shaped your idea of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/hop-over-the-gender-gap">masculinity</a>. One, fuelled by the portrayal of the man as the protector, the creator and the embodiment of strength, and fury.&nbsp;
Growing up in a middle-class South Asian family, the media access I was given was chosen by the men in the family--they were the ones in charge of the VCR and the remote control. Men had more knowledge of technology than women did because of their <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/taking-wealth-out-of-health">access to wealth</a>, education, public spaces and thereby, technology itself!
The selection of films that were brought home were mostly masculine. (Visiting cinemas was not really a thing for the middle-class in those days.) There were many <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Lights-camera-copy-paste,1146">mainstream Bollywood films</a>, but there were also Hollywood entries about boxing rings, war planes and gadgets, and some love. And they were films primarily produced and directed by men.
Looking back, there is a pattern that stands out. Men were mostly angry even when in love and eager to break or to be broken in order to protect who they loved. Women were either vamps and villains, or they were coy, demure beings, subject to rape more often than not. Such scenes of sexual violence were not censored for children. And there were suggestive bedroom scenes, where hands came together in a clasp and you wondered as a child what it meant when a man and a woman strung their fingers together against the bedside table or the headboard. There was no sanitised version of the world for five-year-olds in the 1980s South Asia.
The impressions one collected from the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-qfx-cinema-needs-a-happy-ending">cinema</a> was that women need protection and men are either rapists and killers, or breadwinners and protectors. This impression was partly derived from the society around us, but also fed back to it so that the men in the audience learned to emulate those traits. A full circle.
Even when in love, it was expected of men to pursue women they liked in the most unbecoming ways. Public confrontations and suggestive remarks bordering on harassment were acceptable. If a man wanted a woman, he would follow and corner her, and the woman would be forced to cave in. This would end in marriage. Essentially, it legitimised marrying the stalker/rapist.
From that terribly long lead, spanning across several paragraphs, I will briefly make a case for the men in my family, who tried to change what we saw on screen. My grandfather passed away last year, but all the years of his active life, here’s what I witnessed: He would make tea and toast for my grandmother and himself in the morning, then brunch (usually daal-bhat) and then walk several miles to his office at a hydropower station, while my grandmother attended her hospital duties as a nurse. Back home in the evening, he would play his sitar and then they would cook dinner together, eat together, drink together. Looking back, I marvel at the simplicity of it all.
My father, probably inspired by my grandfather, wakes the house up gently every morning with the sound of the kettle coming to boil and omelettes sizzling in the pan. My mother cooks lunch, and we all take turns cooking dinner. On many occasions, my friends have been surprised at seeing my father in the kitchen. This is not the norm <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-should-be-open-for-south-asia">in South Asia</a>. The message my father sends out, especially to my male friends who frequent our home, is a clear one-- household work is shared among the family, even the men.
Recently, a family friend invited me over for lunch. That day, he was the cook and the cleaner and he set before me a perfectly-delectable meal. He is one of the friends who grew up watching my father cook for the family.
With what was a scattered nut graph, I shall now return to the matter at hand-- the media. There were gods on TV when I was growing up, and the endless family drama that represented life in South Asia in glamourised versions. Women were told to be good, and men were told to take control. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/tv-or-not-tv">TV</a> was an apparatus to impose a certain kind of understanding of nationalism, society and culture.
By the time we moved past the Civil War, Nepal had opened up to the world of films beyond Hollywood and <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=16996">Bollywood</a> and the Pakistani and Japanese TV serials donated by their governments. We had gained Korean films.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/min-bahadur-bham-s-cinematic-quest">Min Bahadur Bham’s cinematic quest</a>, Abishek Budhathoki
Right now, there’s a world open before us through cinemas from across the globe. And interestingly, Korean drama is one of the most popularly streamed genres. The youth take cues from them for fashion and lifestyle as well as relationships. While men who protect women are a vital part of Korean drama, the women portrayed are also more visible and vocal. They are often seen standing up to men, even getting physical with them on occasion and often rising above their male peers in the workplace.
But what also catches one’s eye is the metrosexual look that men now carry with such ease in Korean shows. It has made aesthetic more appealing for many Asian men, who feel represented on screen. It has become possible for men to be pretty and feminine, to reject the hyper-masculine ethos.
I’m fascinated by the portrayal of men who cry unabashedly, who express love and sadness, who breakdown, but also care for the women in their lives. In all of this, the line between genders blur in a surprisingly seamless way. And that’s the kind of men, we want to love. Men, who push against the idea of masculinity that has been thrust upon us for generations. Men who break free of the mould of expected appearance and behaviour needed to validate their gender.
The scene of seduction of Ser Criston Cole by Rhaenyra in the HBO series, House of the Dragon comes to mind. In the episode written by Ira Parker and directed by Clare Kilner, the portrayal of Cole is one of a man of honour and strength, but there is no dearth of tenderness. In the scene of seduction, there is no sexualisation or objectification of the woman, which points to the difference in gaze. The female gaze views the man, not as being a representation of aggression or purely a sex object, but as someone who has compassion and kindness and is therefore, desirable. This is in stark contrast to the male-directed films discussed above, where male gaze highlighted violence as the height of masculinity.
Characters we meet on screen go a long way in shaping our ideals and perspectives. The representations of men who dash the traditional idea of masculinity, and are comfortable in who they are and can be, go a long way in shaping a better world.
There need not be categories to slot men into, as long as we move forward from aggression as a sign of masculinity and cease to perceive softness and kindness as a sign of being ‘unmanly’. Let men endorse that love is fluid and is not bound by the expectations of gender. Let men live free of the burden to carry themselves a certain way, except with the tenderness each one of them brings forth into this world.
Republished from the original in the Articulate, a Konrad Adanaeur Stiftung (KAS) with permission.&nbsp;
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

The tenderness in men

Rain pelleted the windshield furiously. Iva Maharjan dashed down the footpath and slid into the backseat of the taxi, next to me. We were about to be stuck in Kathmandu traffic for exactly two hours and I would ask her a question around which our time would pivot. Iva goes by the name “That cello girl” on her WhatsApp ID. I had always wondered if the title had more to reveal. “Yes, I play the cello,” she flashed a demure smile. The cello is a stringed instrument, used in various genres of music. It is also known as violincello. I had never met a cellist before! The cello isn’t the instrument Iva has always played. When she was 11, she started to learn to play the violin. “My cousin-brother (Sabin Munikar) had set up a music institute in our house so my father asked me if I was interested in learning the violin,” Iva recalled. Her father, Babukaji Maharjan, a music enthusiast himself, plays the dhimay and the flute. He has been the biggest force behind Iva’s music journey. “If my father hadn’t dropped me off to rehearsals, I wouldn’t be here.” I teared up when Iva said that, as I thought about my own father always holding the light for me. When Iva first learned to play the violin, it was very hard. “It’s uncomfortable and painful in the beginning because you’re not used to putting your hand like that and holding the bow in a certain way. It is also difficult to press on strings, hurts your fingertips," Iva said as she showed me the dead skin on her fingers. "But it was a part of the learning and never did it feel like I didn’t want to do it. I liked being known as someone who could play the violin.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241117111120_fbcff54cb40b5fb4f757c687e83ee79964192e6084cc8441f29bfd0e296854f2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241117111120_fbcff54cb40b5fb4f757c687e83ee79964192e6084cc8441f29bfd0e296854f2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="1620" loading="lazy" alt="Meet the cello girl"> <figcaption>PHOTO: KATHMANDU YOUTH ORCHESTRA / FACEBOOK</figcaption> </figure>  While the violin became attached to her identity, it was only in 2017 that her instrument really found her. Iva is part of the Nepal-Norway project, which had donated three cellos to Nepali music groups.&nbsp; They had instruments but not enough players. It was then that her cousin asked her if she wanted to take up the cello. Although not a cellist himself, he taught her how to hold it and where to place her fingers. “I started to practice based on the theory I knew from learning the violin,” Iva said.&nbsp; It was difficult for her to make the transition at first. The violin is in the treble clef and the cello is in the bass clef and so there were different notes on the staff notation to navigate. Yet, a month after picking the cello, Iva played in an orchestra. She debuted as a cellist in 2017 at a performance at the British School: “At that time, my mentor told me, play what you can and leave what you can’t. Just stay focused on the staff notation because you need to know where you are in order to pick the notes that you can play. It was quite simple at that time.” Iva has continued playing the cello after that. “I liked the fact that I didn’t have to hold my hand up anymore. For the violin you have to do that. I could sit and play. I liked the sound. When it’s just the violin, the sound can be quite high pitched. With the cello, it balances it out. It also gives it a more fuller feeling.” As I watched Iva smile and talk about her music, the stillness of the traffic and the fury of the rain had somehow started to wane from my mind. Thinking about Iva in the midst of an orchestra brought a simple and real comfort. She brought out her phone and showed me recordings of her performances.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241117111120_e732ece843b7533b3a7f9896284f55d6789d88b4f0b07eaa379de33e5b6322a2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20241117111120_e732ece843b7533b3a7f9896284f55d6789d88b4f0b07eaa379de33e5b6322a2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Meet the cello girl"> <figcaption>Photo: SAGAR CHHETRI</figcaption> </figure>  What also attracted Iva to the instrument was that it was a unique thing to do. There are currently only a couple of cellists in Nepal and Iva is the only female performing. More recently, Iva has formed a string duo with her friend Phoebe Shrestha on the violin. The duo have presented to audiences in Kathmandu. For Dasain, Iva and her friends released a video, in which she plays the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0xMEe9Jxa4&amp;t=60s">Malashree dhun</a>. It stoked audience interest in the instrument as noted in comments. “People love it when we play these kinds of songs because they’ve only seen them played on traditional instruments,” Iva said. Outside, the traffic had started to stir. Iva receives a lot of attention on the streets because of her cello--a 5'2" girl, bearing a 48-inch, 4X4 instrument in her arms. “People are curious what’s in the bag because it looks so big. They think it’s a guitar. But when they see it, they don’t know the word ‘cello’ so they just call it a big violin,” she laughed. Iva also teaches violin and cello: “Most musicians in Nepal teach music at multiple schools to sustain themselves as musicians. It is a bit of a hustle to get from one school to another sometimes. Currently, she has many students learning the violin but only one learning the cello. The student doesn’t own her own instrument. It has mostly to do with the inaccessibility to a cello-- the instrument is large and the cheapest costs close to 70K and has to be pre-ordered and shipped to Nepal. The one Iva plays was donated by the Norwegians to The Kathmandu Youth Orchestra, of which she is a member. The group starts rehearsing a month or two ahead of the orchestra and plan to do a show every year. Iva described the group as “just a bunch of musicians getting together to make music”. Since the orchestra is not able to support the players, they have to find work elsewhere, which also means the orchestra doesn’t always get a full set of musicians at times of performance. Iva's job is unique, and rewarding when people come up to her after a performance. She feels the cello has become a part of her identity now. “I would not like to leave it [the cello] behind. I haven’t thought about what life would be if I was not playing.” It continued to pour. We had finally covered six kilometres and arrived at our destination. Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people in Pratibha’s life.

Meet the cello girl

Kanchhi, Weena Pun’s debut novel, was delivered to me by a rider on a very rainy afternoon, as Kathmandu Valley and the nation was pummeled by violent rainfall. The book revealed itself in big bold letters: KANCHHI, like someone hollering the name. The letters flank the cover bearing an illustration in shades of grey, showing a hamlet in the mountains. The cover sets the tone for the novel, as Kanchhi’s disappearance is revealed to the readers in the prologue. The story opens with 16-year-old Kanchhi leaving her home. The novel then becomes a journey the reader makes with the writer, as conduit. The narrative toggles between times tracing the days of Kanchhi’s presence and leaping ten years forward into 13 November 2005, a day in the life of Kanchhi’s mother, Maiju, as she waits for her daughter's return. As the plot makes progress, the readers get to know Kanchhi, first as a child and then as a teenager. The novel is set in the mid-western mountains of Nepal, the language landing it firmly. The storytelling is matter-of-factly as it takes us through descriptions of the village and into lives of the villagers. Unseemingly, the writer weaves in the political background of the Maoist insurgency into the narrative, which also works as signposting the timeline for the story. Weena Pun describes the writing process for the novel as “ridiculously slow”. “I struggled to understand Maiju, the mother character. But once I had her and the village down, Kanchhi just took off,” she says of the novel which she started writing everyday, in 2017. While at the core of the book are some key sociopolitical issues, there is also plenty of humour brought out through small moments. Kanchhi, as a child and later as a teenager, is a “no-nonsense” kind of person. So when there are funny moments around her, they become even more pronounced-- in some scenes they work as comic relief. Sentences are frugal, a reminder of Weena’s background as a journalist. She has written for the Himal Southasian, The Kathmandu Post and The Record. There is no meandering, the writer cuts to the chase. She uses “f***” instead of “sex” or even “love-making”. As is with the more grim aspects the book touches upon. The narrative is not lyrical, but rather deliberate, with extensive details of moments and events, including those that have no direct connection to furthering the plot. There is also the thorough description of how a girl goes through menstruation, as rarely seen before.&nbsp; If you are looking for ornate reading, this is not where you will find it. The story is told simply, smoothly, without frill or fluff. The writing is terse. The narrative softens into poetic manoeuvre every other chapter, gathering forgotten songs for the readers. And occasionally, imagery wins: “The disappeared do not disappear. Their memories drape the yard like a fog.” Kanchhi, is a story of defiance. Like every girl, Kanchhi is a rebel. When told to put aside a spoon that has just ladled ghee, Kanchhi will lick it instead. When told to stay back, she chooses to go. She is the curious explorer every girl is. She picks ‘true’ crime stories as a source of entertainment.&nbsp; She knows lyrics of filmy songs, by heart. The titles of cinemas also serve to signpost. But she also understands the poetry of Bhupi Sherchan. She attempts to tell her own stories, write her own poetry. And in Kanchhi doing so, Weena has created a repository of stray lines from jhyaure songs, and own lyrics. The chapters are strewn with Nepali songs and poetry, a respite from the heaviness of the story in some instances. The writing is replete with italicised Nepali words. The text wraps them in for meaning. Regardless, a glossary is supplied at the end of the book, which serves as a fun addition, even if not entirely accurate. One of the words that appear on repeat, is chadar (a word brought to the mountains by the men who migrate to Indian cities for work, another theme that runs high in the book).&nbsp; In the prologue, we see Kanchhi wrap a chadar around herself as she leaves home. A chadar appears every once in a while and makes it to 2005. Kanchhi’s mother, Maiju, throws one around herself, to go speak to a woman who has been battered and tied to a pole by the Maoists, and left to die. It serves as a motif. The novel does run into sections that read like banter. There are dialogues that appear to have no consequence or connection to major events. But by the time one arrives at the second half, familiarisation with Kanchhi’s life has helped build an attachment, which is important for the impact the writer wants to make. Kanchhi, the novel, doesn’t try too hard to be something, and in doing so it becomes. The story brings to attention the themes of love, loyalty, friendship, familial ties, sexuality, and a woman’s worth in Nepali society. Who is a woman besides an object of desire and a womb? Where do her own desires, aspirations, dreams, passions, figure? The book raises the question of abortion rights, by showing without telling. The double standards maintained for the sexes come across through many anecdotes in the novel. Even when both man and woman engage in a sexual activity together, and if and when found illicit, the man is only superficially reprimanded. It is the woman who really pays. And not just in cash. “I hope Kanchhi adds a perspective, tells a good story, and enriches Nepali literature as a whole,” says Weena.&nbsp; Kanchhi is not a frail girl. She is whole. She is flawed, but she is also good. Like we all are, which is why she is endearing as a character. The plot catches you unawares. It leads you to a crescendo, then abandons you, unprepared and heartbroken. Kanchhi is an ache that lingers, long after you’ve put the book away.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241006121040_70b39161504287e5283a2f04a4509e6e3afcb9efc17b73c1a27090712bec0197.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241006121040_70b39161504287e5283a2f04a4509e6e3afcb9efc17b73c1a27090712bec0197" data-rendition-name="original" width="926" height="642" loading="lazy" alt="Kanchhi book Weena Oun"> </figure>  Kanchhi, by Hachette India is set to hit bookstores in Kathmandu on 10th October. Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people.

A tale of resistance

Nepal won the first two matches, clinching the T20 series in the UAE, making history: this is the country’s first ever win, and series win, against a Test-playing country.&nbsp; On Tuesday night, Nepal lost the last game by 10 wickets. The West Indies easily met Nepal’s 122 runs in 19.5 overs. Despite that, Nepal had beaten the two-time T20 World Champions which is currently number 6 in T20 rankings. It is important to note that the West Indies are fielding a significantly weaker and younger team than they could. Caribbean heavy hitters Nicholas Pooran, Andre Russell and Shimron Hetmyer are currently resting or playing in domestic leagues. But that does not take away from the fact that, after two narrow misses against South Africa and Bangladesh at the 2024 T20 World Cup, Nepal has now beaten a Test-Playing nation, and done so convincingly.&nbsp; Nepal won the first match of the series on 27 September by 19 runs. Batting first after winning the toss, Nepal put up 148 for 8 after losing openers Kushal Bhurtel and Aasif Sheikh early.&nbsp; Rohit Paudel’s 38 and Kushal Malla’s 30 steadied the innings, and 148 was a reasonable target to defend on the tricky Sharjah pitch. The young Windies dropped a series of catches.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251001031052_5f24273f6da2f52f6414b7ecc485938a4c726431bfa7c2ba435bded3debe9f5a.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251001031052_5f24273f6da2f52f6414b7ecc485938a4c726431bfa7c2ba435bded3debe9f5a" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal defeats West Indies NT 1"> </figure>  Nepal’s fielding, in contrast, was excellent as it held the West Indies to 129 for 8. Dipendra Singh Airee and Kushal Bhurtel both had run outs, and the team held on to tricky catches throughout.&nbsp; The last ball of the match, with it already won, saw Bhurtel catch Fabian Allen off of Airee’s bowling, throw the ball in the air before stepping outside the boundary, before jumping back in to complete the catch legally.&nbsp; Head coach Stuart Law, former Australian Cricketer, was pleased with the performance. “We deserved it, we played a really good game of cricket. I thought our fielding in the first 15-17 overs was outstanding,” he said, predicting, “the West Indies will be hurt, they’re a proud nation. They’ll come out red-hot on Monday, so we got to be better than tonight.”&nbsp; Bhurtel was ecstatic at having beaten the two-time T20 World Champions. He pointed to the team’s versatility as a big strength. “We have a lot of players who can both bat and bowl. Gulsan (Jha) and Kushal Malla did not bowl at all, and Lalit (Rajbhansi) did not bowl out all of his overs.” And the team still used seven bowlers.&nbsp; If the first match was a surprise, then the second match was a shock. Nepal put up 173 for 6, with Aasif Sheikh hitting 68 not out and Sundeep Jora 63, the two putting up a hundred run fourth wicket partnership.&nbsp; They then bowled out the West Indies for a humiliating 83, with Mohammad Aadil Alam taking 4 for 24 and Kushal Bhurtel 3 for 16.&nbsp; There was more excellence in the field, with the Nepali team taking seven catches, many of them very tricky ones right on the edge of the ropes. This second win sealed the series victory, also a first for Nepali cricket. The margin of victory and the team’s overall dominance were both very obvious.&nbsp; Nepalis in the UAE showed up at the Sharjah Stadium in full support for the Rhinos, wearing jerseys, flags, and dhaka topis, raucously cheering on the team’s performance.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251001031052_217ceb7078e9c253f8db6fec57911eb8e56822e3fc20d520d39e06f475fd6d65.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251001031052_217ceb7078e9c253f8db6fec57911eb8e56822e3fc20d520d39e06f475fd6d65" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal defeats West Indies NT 1"> </figure>  Fresh on their minds must have been recent protests back home. The Cricket Association of Nepal dedicated the series to those who lost their lives. Captain Rohit Paudel also dedicated his man of the match award from the first T20 to the 74 people killed last month in Nepal.&nbsp; “Since last one month has not been that great for us, so slowly we are getting better. It is great to give a little happiness to the people of Nepal,” said Paudel.&nbsp; Leg-spinner Sandeep Lamichhane was notably absent from both matches, having excused himself from the squad for personal reasons.&nbsp; “It is what it is,” said coach Law. “we are a very competitive team and someone has to stand up in his place.”&nbsp; The wins also open the possibilities for further series, with countries such as Bangladesh, Pakistan or Zimbabwe.&nbsp; CHASING TESTS  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251001031048_70fed823c34d91dfefc078cb5786c2ea04ad70387fbf09424a5304b926cc3e3c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251001031048_70fed823c34d91dfefc078cb5786c2ea04ad70387fbf09424a5304b926cc3e3c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="995" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal defeats West Indies"> </figure>  In international cricket, a ‘Test-playing nation’ is a country that is authorised to play Test Matches by the central governing body, the International Cricket Council (ICC). Test Matches are the longest format of the sport, lasting up to five days, and are the most prestigious.&nbsp; Currently, this exclusive group is made up of Australia, Bangladesh, England, India, Ireland, New Zealand, Pakistan, South Africa, Sri Lanka, West Indies, Zimbabwe, and Afghanistan.&nbsp; Nepal has a ways to go. To become a Test-playing nation, it must first become a full member of the ICC. To do this, they must consistently qualify for ODI and T20 world cups over eight years, and have at least two ICC-accredited venues for hosting matches — currently only the Tribhuvan University Cricket Ground qualifies.&nbsp; Nepal must also have significant youth development infrastructure, a good domestic setup, and a recognised governing body that is financially stable and not corrupt.&nbsp; With the current development of stadiums across Nepal and innovations such as the Nepal Premier League, and performances such as these, Nepal seems firmly on the way.&nbsp;

2-1 for Nepal against The Windies

Nepal is still reeling from the short but violent GenZ moment, and the reverberations are being felt around the world.&nbsp;
As news from the killings and rampage from Nepal on 8-9 September spread through the wire services and social media, in the Philippines, East Timor and even faraway Peru, banners on the streets last week referred to ‘learning lessons from Nepal’. In Ladakh last week, <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/9/25/bloodiest-day-how-gen-z-protest-wave-hit-indias-ladakh-killing-four">protesters set fire to the ruling BJP party office</a> and four people were killed in police firing.&nbsp;
Nepal’s GenZ was praised by <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2025/09/19/opinion/asia-protest-youth-nepal-bangladesh.html">international commentators</a> for rising up against chronic corruption and impunity, and for achieving the fastest regime change in history. But the youth were also blamed for the arson and vandalism even though the groups said they had no part in it — most &nbsp;foreign media also did not highlight enough the infiltration by radical groups.
“We were not expecting the protests to turn so violent and deadly. On the second day, things escalated so quickly it became difficult to keep track. We were rushing on the groud and making calls to confirm what was happening,” recalls Paavan Mathema of Agence France-Presse (AFP) in Nepal.
The GenZ protest this month was a lesson on the mechanics of social media. Hashtags like #youthagainstcorruption and #nepobaby from Indonesia inspired Nepal’s youth to take to the streets, but events here in turn triggered protests elsewhere. The international news agencies and mainstream global tv channels were not as important in this information cross-pollination.
The movement was organised online and spread quickly in no time, but it was disinformation and fake news that spread faster than facts. The over-simplification by international media was because it had to explain 30 years of political evolution in a country that they mostly ignored in the past, this sometimes tended to be misleading.&nbsp;
While the Oli government’s social media ban of 26 platforms starting 5 September poured oil on the fire that had already been lit by a disparate group of desperate youth, their outrage over decades of corruption and impunity was reaching a breaking point. There was extreme disenchantment with serial politicians recycling themselves in power.&nbsp;
“The ban on social media definitely triggered the protest, but we put a high priority on accuracy and speed during reporting in such times,” explains the Nepal correspondent for Associated Press (AP) news agency in Nepal Binaj Gurubacharya. “Our own safety also becomes a prime concern in times like these, but should not be at an expense of accuracy.”
CRISIS REPORTING
But headlines everywhere including in The New York Times, The Guardian and others that used wire service content initially highlighted the social media ban as the main reason for the protest. They were soon called out by protesters, while <a href="https://institute.aljazeera.net/en/ajr/article/3358" target="_blank">Al Jazeera</a> and its <a href="https://institute.aljazeera.net/en" target="_blank">Media Institute </a>were applauded for more nuanced coverage.
Another positive example of international media supplementing the stories by local journalists was <a href="https://www.france24.com/en/" target="_blank">France 24’</a>s detailed <a href="https://www.france24.com/en/asia-pacific/20250915-nepal-police-protests-violence-kathmandu" target="_blank">forensic analysis</a> of the security forces firing live ammunition at protesters at Parliament on 8 September.&nbsp;
What really went far and wide around the world were dramatic YouTube videos about the violence, and memes on social media. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-accidental-journalist" target="_blank">A British tourist</a> who filmed street protests did the work of an on-the-ground journalist and got millions of views globally for some of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Slq6zWu9o9w" target="_blank">his YouTube videos</a>.&nbsp;
But some of the misinformation or fake news on social media was also picked up by the mainstream press, like the <a href="https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/south-asia/nepal-violence-ex-pm-khanals-wife-dies-after-house-torched-president-urges-calm-dialogue/articleshow/123791004.cms">wrongly reported death of former Prime Minister Jhalanath Khanal’s wife</a> in an arson attack on their home. A video of the Finance Minister Bishnu Poudel being <a href="https://www.ndtv.com/world-news/video-nepal-finance-minister-chased-through-street-kicked-attacked-9243749">chased and beaten</a> by protesters also turned out to be someone else.&nbsp;
Some international outlets, mainly in India, also fell prey to a fake video that K P Oli had fled to Dubai. Even this newspaper’s online edition had to correct it after wrongly reporting it without verification.&nbsp;
Indian tv channels which did &nbsp;extensive coverage of events in Nepal, with many Nepalis relying on them and believing their content — especially during the protests when Nepal’s main channels went off air as they were being attacked.
All this got out of hand, and protesters in the week after the violence started ridiculing and harassing Indian tv correspondents as they tried to interview talking heads outside the charred Parliament building, or on the streets.
<a href="https://www.newslaundry.com/2025/09/09/foreign-hand-gen-z-data-addiction-5-ways-indian-media-missed-the-nepal-story">Indian media</a> were also the first to accuse US involvement in sparking a ‘colour revolution’ in Nepal. They later claimed that former Nepal Electricity Authority (NEA) chief and now Energy Minister Kulman Ghising and even Kathmandu Mayor Balen Shah have been appointed interim prime minister in Nepal. These were rumours in Nepal, but were reported as news.&nbsp;
“Fact checking is crucial while covering such movements, and since we are telling an important story about Nepal to the world, double checking becomes important as it sets the international narrative,” says Mathema.
“We were constantly double checking numbers and information with concerned authorities and parties to make sure we were accurate, especially as misinformation was rampant,” she adds.
Apart from Indian media, international news agencies got reinforcements of reporters, photojournalists and editors from the region, and other foreign correspondents also flew in when Kathmandu airport was opened after 48 hours.
Adds Mathema: “Sometimes foreign reporters can give a fresh perspective or an angle which we could not see or cover. So their inputs are always helpful.”
In the aftermath of the violence, there were plenty of jokes and memes, clips of protesters dancing, in weird poses and performing martial arts, showcasing the light hearted side of the protests while also <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-meme-revolution">reaffirming the resilience</a> of people able to bounce back from something so traumatic.
The GenZ clean-up campaigns, neighbourhoods helping restore burnt out police stations and local people’s emotional reaction to the burnt out hulks of government buildings at the city centre also <a href="https://www.scmp.com/week-asia/people/article/3325635/nepals-gen-z-protesters-lead-clean-campaign-after-violent-clashes">made news</a>.
“After the protests, people were quick to gather and clean up public spaces and paint police stations. This is a scene which may not be so common in other countries with similar violence,” adds Gurubacharya. “So it became an important story to also tell the world.”&nbsp;
In less than two days, the world saw a dramatic toppling of a democratic government. With the interim government led by former chief justice Sushila Karki, there is much hope. She has expanded her ministerial cabinet, and the election has been announced for 5 March 2026 but between then and now, a lot remains uncertain.&nbsp;
And Nepal will continue to be watched by national and international media alike until then and after. AP’s Gurubacharya sums it up: “For now, we are taking it one day at a time.”

International spotlight on Nepal

From the echo chambers of social media to neighborhood tea shops, the hot topic two weeks after the GenZ revolt toppled Nepal’s government is whether the country should now have a directly elected prime minister. Although this has been proposed before as a way to end the instability in heads of government chosen by the biggest party or coalition in Parliament, it has found supporters and critics in the aftermath of the protests. As democratic as it sounds, a directly elected executive is not that simple.&nbsp; Nepal’s 2015 Constitution does not allow it, but for a young generation impatient for change, this demand raises critical social, political and constitutional questions. Nepal has seen a multiplicity of systems in the past 45 years: from a partyless absolute monarchy to a constitutional one, a parliamentary democracy and then a federal republic. But they have repeatedly failed to bring stability, good governance or an end to corruption in Nepal. But even though lately they have ensured civil liberties, the public was losing hope for the future, especially the young who could air and amplify their outrage on social media. Unbridled corruption and ideologically mismatched fragile coalitions acting with impunity, led many to conclude that a directly elected prime minister would ensure stability and accountability. ‘We have repeatedly trusted the same political parties, but they have repeatedly broken that trust, so it is no longer possible to trust that system anymore,’ says Miraj Dhungana, popular for the TikTok videos asking young people to go out into the streets to rally against corruption, and seen by many as the ‘original’ representative of Gen Z.&nbsp; In interviews he has stated that it has become necessary for Nepal to have a directly elected executive head through constitutional amendment. Dhungana himself did not participate in the protests after his meeting with pro-monarchist businessman Durga Prasai on 7 September sparked controversy that he as a lackey. Binod Deuba Thakuri of the Nepal Student Union who also participated in the GenZ protests thinks Nepal is institutionally not ready for directly elected prime minister: “Our democracy is not mature yet, our institutions are not strong, and we are vulnerable to social media induced populism.”&nbsp; CONSTITUTION AMENDMENT Amending the Constitution would also open a pandora’s box, with other demands, and should be left to the next legislative body, he adds. In her address to the nation on Friday, Prime Minister Sushila Karki who is a former chief justice also clarified that her interim government does not have the mandate to amend the Constitution to make way for a directly elected head of government, and it should be up to the new legislature and government after the 5 March election.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250919130956_799b2d43dccca73b3bff96e435efc0752203117b2cb219d0073994c0e6f2ee25.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250919130956_799b2d43dccca73b3bff96e435efc0752203117b2cb219d0073994c0e6f2ee25" data-rendition-name="original" width="4160" height="2774" loading="lazy" alt="Constitution Day NT"> <figcaption>Constitution Day address by Prime Minister Sushila Karki on 19th September earlier this month.</figcaption> </figure>  The demand for a directly elected executive head was first raised by Maoist leader Pushpa Kamal Dahal after the 2006 ceasefire. He proposed himself as Nepal’s first executive president ahead of the 2008 Constituent Assembly elections. While the UML did not strongly oppose the idea, the Nepali Congress (NC) stuck to a parliamentary framework. The 2015 Constitution ultimately clinched it for the current parliamentary system. The Constitution stipulates that the process of selecting a prime minister is based on parliamentary strength: the President appoints the leader of the party with a majority in the House of Representatives, or, in the absence of such a majority, a member who can demonstrate majority support. If these efforts fail, provisions exist for coalition or minority governments, and ultimately for the dissolution of the House and fresh elections. The Constitution currently makes no provision for a directly elected prime minister, which means that any attempt to introduce a directly elected executive would first require the careful design of a democratic mechanism to amend the Constitution and set out the procedures for such an election.&nbsp; “There is no legal legitimacy to have the directly elected executive head of the country in the March election, except if political legitimacy surpasses legality but that would mean a new constitution,” explains senior advocate Surendra Kumar Mahato. “Many other institutional arrangements like the appointment of the judiciary, the role of the president, and other check and balance mechanisms would need to be restructured.” Mahato says: “Nepal’s Constitution itself is not at fault — it is the political actors, who have failed to uphold good governance within its framework. Changing systems does not ensure better governance.”&nbsp; Changing the Constitution also needs a broad political consensus, the institutional capacity of the state must be carefully considered to ensure such a new system can function effectively in practice and not simply in theory. Empowering an executive head through direct elections should not come at the expense of accountability or parliamentary oversight, and there should be checks and balances in place. LESSONS FROM ABROAD Sri Lanka’s 2022 Agralaya was fuelled by the anger that the directly executive head turned out to be an authoritarian who backslides on democracy. Under Sri Lanka’s 1978 Constitution, the country adopted a directly elected executive presidency with sweeping powers over the cabinet, appointments, dismissal of parliament, and control over key institutions.&nbsp; Over the years, President Mahinda Rajapaksa removed term limits via the 18th Amendment in 2010, centralised appointment powers, including judges and heads of independent commissions, and used constitutional changes such as the 20th Amendment (2020) to reverse safeguards that limited presidential authority, thereby subordinating the legislature, weakening oversight, and enabling authoritarian control.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250914060932_a96e1046d0b148982b33f2dcbe56f349dc0c20a087e358360eb2dddcfe0b5072.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250914060932_a96e1046d0b148982b33f2dcbe56f349dc0c20a087e358360eb2dddcfe0b5072" data-rendition-name="original" width="4640" height="2610" loading="lazy" alt="GenZ and Aragalaya"> <figcaption>Anti-government protest in Sri Lanka on 13 April 2022 in front of the Presidential Secretariat. Photo: WIKIPEDIA</figcaption> </figure>  Nepal’s multiparty framework upholds an institutional balance where both the governing party and the opposition have defined roles. This parliamentary setup prevents power from being overly concentrated in one individual and ensures accountability through parliament and competing parties. Beyond the neighbourhood, the United States has a directly elected executive system. Donald Trump exemplifies how direct electoral mandate can fracture institutional check mechanisms. He has leveraged his power to attack judges, frame political opponents, turn legal defeats into rallying points for his supporters, often using pliant media platforms to reinforce the idea that institutional checks impeded the popular will. In Nepal, there is a risk that a directly elected prime minister could bring up a populist media savvy messiah who could use public grievances to get to power and consolidate it. Social media can be mobilised and easily saturated with posts to fuel a political narrative of choice.&nbsp; In the past, former prime minister K P Oli’s ‘digital army’ has been lobbied on his behalf on social media. Even without an ‘IT sena’, it is not unusual for governments to collaborate with social media platforms as seen in the US and India.&nbsp; In Nepal, a directly elected prime minister would raise the stakes, turning the battle for votes into a battle for attention online, where a leader who wins the algorithm also wins the elections, just as Kathmandu Mayor Balen Shah demonstrated in 2022 with support from groups like MRR and RONB. The Balen Phenomenon started in social media trickled to the ballot box.&nbsp; The digital space mas ensure that it is not trendy to dislike Balen. Comments that are critical of the Kathmandu Metropolitan City’s treatment of street vendors or of the mayor himself are met with backlash from supporters. Or, if the comments did not get any likes, the algorithms filtered them out as ‘not relevant’.&nbsp; The conversation of Shah often centred on his emotive responses and sentiments, generating strong engagement online. Meanwhile, policy debates received comparatively less attention.&nbsp; “Choosing a leader directly through an election means that we are vulnerable to populism and undermining of the democratic process, accountable institutions,” says Thaukri. Political activist Pradip Gyawali admits that the GenZ revolt was an example of how social media is a powerful tool to organise and disseminate information. But there are risks posed by disinformation and fake news online.&nbsp; “More media and political literacy among the people before the election in March is crucial to control the damage social media could do to influence voter behaviour,” he says.&nbsp; Beyond social media, online news increasingly relies on sensational, click-driven headlines to attract readers in a competitive digital market. A recent survey showed that 82.6% of GenZ (16- 24) rely on Facebook for news and 51.4% on YouTube.&nbsp; Nepali people with higher education seemed to engage with news more (99.1%) than illiterate individuals at 52.1%. Byte-sized headline-only journalism is leaving readers to their own devices, and vulnerable to media infiltration by IT cells.&nbsp; With social media actively shaping the course of elections, and news consumption, debates about changing the Constitution or the system of governance yet again may not ensure the demands for corruption free governance is met. Instead, strengthening media and political literacy among voters is key to prepare for the elections in March. Ayusha Chalise is a communication and development scholar specialising in how politics is experienced in the digital space.

Nepal's democracy keeps doubting itself

The word for ‘development’ in Nepali is bikas. The world for destruction is binas. &nbsp; The two words not only rhyme, but replacing just one consonant gives it an opposite meaning. It also demonstrates how easily what we think is <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/development-destruction-yt3t1yhu">‘Development’ can be destructive</a>.&nbsp; University libraries in Nepal and around the world are stacked with hundreds of books dissecting ‘development’. They can be divided broadly into at least two types: some authors define development as a moral imperative to improve living standards of people in the underserved parts of the world, mostly in the Global South.&nbsp; Others critique development either as being an ‘industry’, or as a continuation of the western colonial project that imposes dependency and corruption, perpetuates the donor-recipient hierarchy, and ends up disempowering intended beneficiaries. Somewhere in between are books by experts who have tried to find a middle path with concepts like ‘sustainable human development’, ‘people’s participation’ or ‘public-private partnership’. But even the staunchest proponents of traditional development models will admit that all is not well, somewhere along the line we lost our way. Peter Sutoris and Uma Pradhan have dared to take the bull by the horns to find a new path to ‘reimagine’ development, and explore new templates to confront a world wracked by interconnected crises of conflict, inequality, environmental decay and climate breakdown. Their book Reimagining Development: Bold Directions Towards a Thriving World lays out a roadmap for countries like Nepal as they try to fix what went wrong. Billions of dollars were poured into Nepal’s ‘development’ over the past seven decades, but the country is littered with the carcasses of failures like the rusted abandoned tractors from the Rapti Valley Development Project 65 years ago. To be sure, there have been catalytic success stories along the way. It is not a coincidence that whatever has worked well in Nepal since 1990 has the word ‘community’ in it — things fall into place when local groups are given ownership to decide what they need, and allowed to decide what they need to do.&nbsp; Some examples in the book include <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/reviving-nepals-community-forestry-success-story">Nepal’s community forestry project</a>, which Sutoris and Pradhan cite as an example of the kind of possibilities needed to reimagine development for a ‘thriving world’. Local communities were handed control to manage their natural resources, revive traditional conservation practices, and assert command over their own destiny. Nepal’s community forestry program together with the Local Self Governance Act that decentralised power to elected local bodies in the 1990s was the best example of how development can be a political act to ensure an equitable future, while conserving nature. Sutoris and Pradhan write: ‘Substantial evidence from Nepal indicates that community forestry enhances forest protection and regeneration … Village Development Committees that had adopted community forestry recorded a 77% increase in forested area, compared to a 13% increase in the villages without community forest.’&nbsp; Peter Sutoris was born in the former Czechoslovakia that saw the 1968 Prague Spring uprising and the Velvet Revolution of 1989. Uma Pradhan is from Nepal, which has witnessed successive People’s Movements in 1980, 1990, 2006 and earlier this month in 2025. &nbsp; ‘It was perhaps because of these experiences of witnessing the remaking of the world in the wake of the end of the Cold War that we come to this book with a strong belief that even the most rigid collective trajectories can and do change,’ the authors write in their introduction. Their book has three parts. The first one dissects the Development Industry and the model of perpetual ‘growth’. (Interestingly, the word ‘growth’ is used in medicine to signify malignancy.) The authors propose re-centering the stories of beneficiaries and their lived experiences which have been pushed to the margins in ‘project’ design of mainstream Development with a capital ‘D’. &nbsp; The book defines development with a lowercase ‘d’ as a more democratic bottom-up approach. Capital ‘D’ Development on the other hand involves ‘developers’ wanting to ‘develop’ societies, replicating the wasteful, unsustainable growth path of the industrialised countries. &nbsp; The book’s second section examines the tension between sweeping international concepts of development, and how it is not quite relevant to the reality of rural areas of countries like Nepal. The prevailing notion that development ‘aid’ flows mostly from cash rich countries to cash poor ones ignores the fact that it mostly takes from the poor in rich countries to give to the rich in poor countries. After all, the Global South also includes the underserved parts of the Global North.&nbsp; RETHINKING PROGRESS The Development Industry does ‘develop’ certain segments of the economy, just not so much the sections it is supposed to uplift. The <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/usnoaid">cancellation of USAID</a> this year vacated hundreds of rented offices and houses in Kathmandu, consultants and contractors became jobless, and even Nepal’s domestic airlines lost business.&nbsp; The third part of this book imagines what ‘A Thriving World’ can look like if we listened more to indigenous communities and their knowledge of the stewardship of nature, adopted best practices about inclusive and decentralised decision-making, and explores examples of ‘degrowth’ and ‘postgrowth’ to address unsustainable consumerist, extractivist economics, and the climate crisis. Sutoris and Pradhan admit that these concepts are not new. Practitioners have questioned the top-down model for decades, but their book Reimagining Development takes a fresh, non-conventional approach to bridging the best of the ‘old’ development discourse with a ‘new’ imagining that transcends entrenched positions. The authors cite Buddhist mindfulness techniques, the concept of ‘radical humility’ and the idea of deep time to zoom out for a fresh perspective on a novel development paradigm to ‘think about humanity’s position in the world’. ‘Ultimately, this book is likely to disappoint both the proponents and critics of development,’ the authors admit. ‘The proponents might view the arguments we put forward as too esoteric and not attuned to what can realistically be achieved. The critics might be dismayed by our &nbsp;unwillingness to dispose of the concept of development altogether and by our attempts to give credit to the Development establishment where credit is due. Our aim, however, is not to please either camp.’ The authors do not want to throw the baby out with the bathwater. However, the obsolete way of forcing soft states to adopt the path of linear modernisation and infinite growth so they can ‘graduate’ to a higher per capita income bracket must be rethought. Alternative models are available to confront the momentous crises facing people and the planet.&nbsp; Nepal’s <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-historic-youth-dissensus">GenZ protesters this month rose up</a> against corruption and bad governance. But underlying it was a failure of the development path that the country has chosen, which contributed to wanton destruction of ecosystems, the unequal allocation of &nbsp;benefits, and corruption that ensured both over- and under-development.&nbsp; Nepal’s young idealists may not have been able to articulate it in the language of academic discourse, but on social media platforms they have discussed a post-development era to reexamine and reimagine development, accountability, embedded ethnocentric hegemony, and an in-built structural inequality in the system.&nbsp; These lines from Sutoris and Pradhan’s book could almost be word-for-word from the GenZ manifesto: ‘Development encompasses not only financial prosperity but social justice, environmental sustainability, and the more plural development pathways that respect the world’s diverse cultural, historical, political, and social contexts.’&nbsp; Indeed, instant global connectivity through social media platforms has meant that socio-political movements elsewhere in the world impacted on young Nepalis, just as the events in Nepal this month are now influencing youth globally.&nbsp; These lines from Reimagining Development were written before the September Uprising in Nepal, but were a warning of things to come: ‘The current moment feels different. Perhaps due to the global nature of many of the contemporary movements facilitated by social networks, perhaps due to the movements’ sheer scale, or perhaps as a result of the multitude of challenges faced by the world, the feeling in the air seems to be that accumulated critiques of Development are more pressing than ever. If development is to remain a historical moment, it must reinvent itself and finally listen to the voices from below.’ &nbsp; Kunda Dixit is the author of Dateline Earth: Journalism As If the Planet Mattered, and publisher of Nepali Times.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025092704094_b795907f8fa9a5ec67508e683e7a65737c6c237ca5482425bcbe5ee6254bb3f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="2025092704094_b795907f8fa9a5ec67508e683e7a65737c6c237ca5482425bcbe5ee6254bb3f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Development book details"> </figure>