Prince Trailokya stopped at a bend halfway up Shivapuri, exhausted. He’d left his horse outside Budhanilkantha temple almost two ghadis ago and had climbed continuously, determined to make it to the top.
The literary canon of a nation as multilingual as Nepal ought not to consist overwhelmingly of Nepali-language literature, but it does. It ought to include a vast body of literature in national languages other than Nepali, but it doesn’t.
Before the election, as sexist and racist and consumptive as I know Americans are, I believed we knew what was right even if we didn’t always do what was right.
We can blame climate change for the scattering of our seasons, and the cultures they enable. This is no less than a remoulding of our imaginations. But how do we face up to our rebellion against Mother Nature, and her wrathful, deadly response?