What are you hoping to get out of your appointment?

‘To provide service, help the community.’

How is that going so far?

‘We are doing our best.’ (Scrolling through his phone.)

This past year was an exercise in equanimity. Forced indoors under lockdown, quarantine or ‘shelter-in-place’ orders as governments scrambled to contain Covid-19, many of us eventually found ourselves on edge, listless and irascible. By the end of the year, we were spent. In such trying times, we turned to indulgences and sought comfort in that most maligned of disciplines – the arts.

These words echo Kunwar’s sadness at not being lucky enough to read queer stories, but with his memoir, he has paved the way, signaling to queer writers that their stories are equally valid. Kunwar sings a song for me, and for all those queer individuals who have been waiting like caged birds for someone to come along with a heartfelt lullaby.

A name doesn’t mean anything. Nevertheless, many people grab hold of their name and use it as a fertiliser to grow things like identity. What is interesting, though, is the soil the fertiliser is applied to, the soul – what makes you a human being.

Episode 8 of the La.Lit podcast is online! Assistant editors Itisha Giri and Niranjan Kunwar discuss Niranjan’s book “Between Queens and the Cities” published by Fine Print Books. You can order your copy of the book via Thuprai and Kitab Yatra, and via Amazon.com for those outside Nepal.

“Jai Grihasti!” The couple and their teenaged daughter Shrijana chimed this cheerful and familiar greeting in unison, their palms joined in a namaste. They’d incorporated this practice into all their trainings to promote the most basic principle of permaculture – “The home is the heart of the farm, all hail to this engine!”

By the time Mita arrived at the tea-shop, a dozen of Bhairav’s ‘friends’ had already ‘liked’ his Facebook post. He enjoyed this virtual validation – he felt good, influencing his ‘friends’ with positive thoughts and energy.

Aahva had run away from home at 17, packing nothing but some clothes, some food from the kitchen, her dead mother’s diary and three thousand Indian rupees that she had found while rummaging through her father’s drawers.

A morning in June. Kathmandu Valley woke up to its monsoon nightmare to discover that the city had transformed into a latrine.