The Kathmandu sky sliced with unlive wires. Highways broken like bread or a body.

“It’s like someone came and bombed this place, dai,” Sashi told me, breaking into that familiar and mischievous smile.

I’m talking about the Sunday after the quake, although Sunday hadn’t even fully arrived.

Road dividers in Kalimati are subtly deranged: a rough linearity is visible, until you approach them with attentiveness. You see that they have been jostled, thrown off-kilter, made unruly because they have been shaken out...

How does it feel when someone coldly asks you to lie down and spread your legs?

We are happy to announce that we are partnering with writer Samrat Upadhyay to organize the second edition of Writing Nepal: A Short Story Contest. The contest has been set up to encourage new writing...

“Hodgson?” she asked. “Here’s your book,” and she handed me a thick, insect-ravaged volume. The spine was falling off. I untied the tape that held it closed and the fan blew the top page away.

Anyone who goes to this retrospective will quickly dismiss any suggestion that Nepali art is a second-rate derivation of Western stylistics.

Some days are charged. Have you ever noticed a certain kind of current in the air?

I got pulled out of bed one late November morning and drawn into the kitchen. The sky was overcast and gray but I didn’t feel the cold. I cut through the air, as if made of iron.