Sense of an ending in Kathmandu #NepalEarthquake

With the recent devastation of the historic national heritages, I have developed a new sense of loss

The Laxminarayan Temple in front of the Garuda is no more.

The Laxminarayan Temple in front of the Garuda is no more.

KATHMANDU, APR 27 – This is undoubtedly the worst possible time to admit this. But given the times we are living in, there is no better time to acknowledge it.

I have always felt uneasy with the portrayal of the Kathmandu Durbar Square as the face of Kathmandu. Not that I have not spent innumerable mornings, afternoons and evenings loitering aimlessly at the Square. It is not as if I have not spent many hours sitting at the Maju Deval facing different directions depending on my mood either: facing the buildings behind when not in the mood to look at people, a different side not to disturb lovers or just staring ahead at the people, feeling the wind and watching life go by. On different steps of the Deval and the surrounding temples, I have met different friends to discuss different issues: a career, development, relationships and death, and unwillingly gulped down many cups of tea.

Still, my question has always remained: must we always justify our love of Kathmandu in relation to the cup of tea we sipped on the steps of the Laxmi Narayan temple? Does all writing about Kathmandu have to justify one’s love of the Durbar Square or situate itself in the alleys of Asan? What about the Kathmandu beyond the stretch of the stone-paved path from Juddha Salik to a temple called the small Pasupatinath? On other days, when discussion on Twitter inadvertently veered towards accusing ‘Kathmandu’ of not doing this or that, I have wondered what Kathmandu is. Is it a collection of white buildings inside Singha Durbar? Is it Baluwatar? Or is it the millions that live in tiny rented rooms in the city or migrants from elsewhere who now have a ghar in Kathmandu? Can the city be what it is by excluding any one of these?

The end of an era: Dharahara is no more.

The end of an era: Dharahara is no more.

But when I first saw Dharahara missing from the city’s landscape, I was very clear as to what Kathmandu is or was. (more…)


The earthquake in Kathmandu 2015

Mahesh Acharya had just finished speaking about the contentious constitutional issues. It was now turn to talk about the upcoming national convention of his party the Nepali Congress. The Minister of Forest and Soil Conservation, who is also a Nepali Congress leader, was telling me how the rumours that the NC President and Prime Minister Koirala was seeking to elongate the constitution-writing process until after the party convention were baseless. Then, he said, “There’s an earthquake” and rushed towards the door. I did too. But just as I had scrambled out of the door, I don’t remember how, it began shaking like crazy. I reached the grass lawn outside, but lost balance. I rolled on the ground, something similar to a somersault, only that it was involuntary. What a weird situation to be in, I thought. To be taking an interview as a journalist and doing a somersault. It amused me. In retrospect, I must have been grinning while I rolled. Then there were aftershocks. Earthworms began to emerge from the soft grass. Walls nearby had collapsed. I couldn’t make a phone call. But I could tweet. https://twitter.com/drshn_/status/591850836575162369 Then, I realized that I simply had no idea about what I should do during an earthquake when out in the open! I remembered the public service announcements I had heard on the radio, particularly the one which used to be (don’t know if they still do) played quite frequently in the Hits FM.  None of the suggestions I knew of, like leave the lines open for people to contact each other or finding a corner to stand, hiding below a table dealt with the outdoors. I looked around me wondering if there was a certain position people were supposed to sit or crouch in. There were only five people in the lawn, me and a photographer with the Kantipur publications, Nimeshji, along with the minister, his wife and son.  I did what Nimeshji was doing, resting his elbow and knees on the grass. I realised how unprepared I was for the ‘big one’. All my life, ever since I have known that a great earthquake was due in Kathmandu, I have felt as though my life is one long wait for an earthquake. Over the years, I have indulged myself with the imagined repercussions of the earthquake in great detail. Kathmandu would be flattened. Ideally, I would be at home with all my family members. But when the earthquake did actually happen, I barely had the time to register what was happening. About 20 minutes later, I headed towards the door of the Ministerial  quarters where visitors are supposed to leave behind an identity card and they are given a visitor’s card to whichever minister’s house they are headed to. When I reach the door, the police at the gate again sent me back to get the visitor’s card I’d left behind. I had to go back and get it. The farce of it all, I thought. There is no certainty about life and what the police wants to do is to demonstrate his power or follow the rule apparently! Once out on the streets, it was clear that the only open spaces in Kathmandu for most people were its roads. Most of Kathmandu seemed to be intact while traveling on the main roads. Newer buildings survived, but those built before the 1900s (looked so) had either collapsed or were damaged partially. Thousands of people in Kathmandu had secured places for themselves in limited public spaces like in the middle of the roads, some grounds including the military parade ground that was opened to the public in central Kathmandu and in traffic island in the middle of the road. In the outskirts of the city, residents have gathered in small groups, away from their homes, to spend night. I am typing this from one of those shelters. In the case of my neighbourhood, we are spending the night under a tin shack which is under construction for a furniture shop. People are fearful of the very houses they would otherwise feel secure in. If this is what Kathmandu has been undergoing, one can only imagine the horrors people elsewhere in the country lived through. [The latest tremor I felt was about 10 minutes ago, at 11:30 pm, as I was rearranging the photos in the album below. Good night from the tin shack.] Here are some photos I took today:

Virtual is the new real

MAR 20 – A few days back, no sooner had I stepped inside a microbus in the evening, a picture of a brain displayed on a mobile phone caught my eye. From where my head was positioned, caught in between the arm of a woman in the front and a man at the back, the screen was unmissable. The brain which seemed to be a post in a stranger’s Facebook timeline resembled the insides of a walnut. The phone’s  owner, a young woman, was seated across a young man equally engrossed with this white-coloured phone.

Right above his head, a sticker pasted alongside Mahila/Apanga/Asakta 1, 2, 3 asked: Billions of rupees for leaders, what for the people? Smartphones, perhaps, I thought to myself.

It was an uneventful ride until it was time for the white-phone owner to get off.  As soon as he stepped out, he got into a verbal altercation with the conductor. Apparently, the latter pissed the man off by making a snide remark about his fiddling with the phone.

Kaslai hepeko?


As is the case with such fights, it was difficult for me to establish who had actually disrespected whom. By then the passengers had already begun to take sides. “Why should a passenger engrossed with his phone be a problem unless he does not pay the fare?” one asked. “People need to kill time on a public vehicle some way or the other,” a woman added.

The man for whom the arguments were being made had long gone. At that very instant, it felt as though we (the people in the vehicle) had moved on too–to join our global tribe which, if need be, will fight tooth and nail for the right to stare at our screens as and when we wish to. It reminded me of something I binge-watched about a month or so ago and which has been bothering me ever since.


Drenched in Kathmandu

A few years back, me and a few friends decided to go on a trip to Chitwan. But just when we reached Aadamghat, in Dhading, a forgettable place along the Prithivi Highway, the microbus came to a halt. There was a protest going on somewhere ahead and no certainty on when our journey would resume. So, after realising we were stranded, we stepped out of the vehicle and walked alongside huge parked trucks, taking pictures, as that would most likely be the only time we would travel so far, together. In every shot, we grinned ear to ear, did something silly with our hands for lack of anything better to do and captured feigned happiness. A friend later uploaded them on Facebook without mentioning the context, and people liked them. It did, after all, look like we had a whale of a time. In truth, we returned to our rooms in Kathmandu, which we had so arduously planned to escape, dejected.

Each day, our Facebook and Twitter timelines are cluttered with such demonstrations of other people’s lives. Most, like our Dhading disaster, are devoid of context. At worst, such displays result in envy and dissatisfaction on part of the viewers. At best, users know that social media is just a selective display of people’s lives. Still there is nothing that can be done about it. Things are different when people are discussing an event in the city open to all, say a film festival at Kumari, a discussion at Martin Chautari or, like last week, the Literature Festival. When too many people engage online in unending platitudes of such programmes, it naturally makes people feel that they should be a part of it too. Who knows what one can learn there, what thoughts could be triggered? The possibilities are endless.


Public transit perils

Five in the evening is not a time to expect much from life, especially if you take the public bus to and from work.  Sanity then, is a combination of the right thoughts and actions. First, take a deep breath and push someone else to make way into the vehicle, throw an apologetic smile and tell oneself ‘C’est la vie’. Next, be ready for everything that comes your way. The bus conductor wants you to go further inside: just do it. Your bag’s poking the eye of a passenger seated on the aisle seat, apologise profusely. Your butt’s touching somebody else’s, just forget it. Be careful about the placement of your hand on the iron rod, because once you remove it, you’ll forget where you’d put it before. Most times, someone else scrambling to hold onto something will have found it. On one occasion, an unknown passenger on a bus to Bhaktapur joked, in a bus so filled with people, you will not even find your own body part to scratch and instead end up scratching somebody else. This violation of personal space on all accounts—the sweat and scent of alien bodies pressed against yours, the loud senseless music—will more often than not, get to many.