The photographic exhibition Dalit: A Quest for Dignity, on at Patan Museum till November 26, brings much of our country’s exploitative history into focus.

The streets malinger beneath the tight-lipped sky.

Each stone draws like a weapon.

Each cooking fire is a funeral.

Clocks are trouble. They lie. Women are trouble. They know when you’re lying. Bloody hell. I don’t know what day it is.

Those skulls and bones, not so long ago, were covered in flesh.

Mountains melt, forests are felled, rivers flow and ebb, and where are we? It is tempting to imagine that climate change is too big for small places like Kurule to adapt to. But people still live here.

In All of Us In Our Own Lives, Thapa hammers in the adage that the personal is political, especially in a country like Nepal where there is no circle around the individual.

Soon afterwards, though, a party activist came up and shook my hand.

There was a time when people in the great plains believed in ny?ya. Not anymore. Not after what had happened.

The stomach suffers immensely / It suffers from lack.