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Exploring the woods

I was sitting in my room, bored out of my mind, when the doorbell rang. To my surprise, it was my best friend, Tom. You see, Tom is the laziest person I have ever met—he even asks others to tie his shoelaces.

“Hi Tom, how are you?” I asked. Without answering, he walked straight into my room and sat on my bed.

Was he still mad at me for spilling soup in his bag yesterday? Nervously, I asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “I just came to play.” Relieved, I joined him. We ate chips and played some games, but soon got bored again. That’s when Tom asked, “Have you heard the new rumor about the forest nearby?”

I shook my head nervously. He gave me a strange look. “Okay, no worries, I’ll tell you. At the end of the forest, there’s a haunted house ruled by twelve spirits. Even during the daytime, a candle flickers in the window.”

I didn’t believe him. “Let’s go check it out and see if it’s real,” I challenged.

“I don’t want to!” Tom whined. “I’m scared!” But after some convincing, he finally agreed.

Wrong house

We set off into the forest. After a while, we reached a fork in the road. “Let’s split up,” I suggested. “We’ll call each other when we find the house.”

Reluctantly, Tom agreed. I walked and walked, staring at the ground, when suddenly—bam! I bumped into someone.

“AAAHHH!” I screamed. “AAAHHH!” the other person screamed back.

It was Tom! Somehow, our paths crossed again. Laughing nervously, we continued together until, in the distance, we spotted a massive house.

“That’s the haunted house!” Tom whispered.

We raced toward it, but once inside the gate, we realized it didn’t look haunted at all. Flowers bloomed in the garden, and a beautiful chandelier sparkled inside.

We explored the mansion, passing through endless halls and climbing a grand staircase, until we opened a small door. Inside, a family of six sat around a table.

“Come in, boys,” the mother said kindly. Nervously, we sat down. She asked, “What are you searching for?”

“A haunted house,” we replied. She laughed. “There’s no haunted house in this forest.” “I knew it!” I shouted.

But Tom leaned over and whispered, “She’s lying. I just know it.”

That night, the family gave us dinner and showed us to a room. Exhausted, we fell asleep quickly.

Something strange

The next morning, the house was empty. No family, no voices—just silence. We ran through the halls calling out, but no one was there. It was eerie. “Let’s leave now,” I told Tom. We grabbed some food from the kitchen for the journey and hurried outside. Suddenly, someone called our names. “AAAGGGHHHHH!” we screamed.

It was our parents. Furious and relieved, they told us they had searched all night and even put up missing posters all over town. Without another word, they dragged us home. Our adventure had ended.

The missing posters

The very next day, we went to school. On the projector screen during assembly, our missing poster was displayed. Even the principal looked emotional. Then a fifth grader shouted, “OH MY GOD! THE MISSING GUYS ARE HERE!”

Everyone turned to stare at us like we were aliens from another planet. The principal called us on stage. “Where were you two?” he asked politely. We said nothing. “WHERE WERE YOU?” he repeated, louder this time.

Still, we stayed silent. Furious, he scolded us in front of the whole school. For the rest of the day, classmates, teachers, even strangers kept asking the same question. An old lady stopped us on the street, the shopkeeper asked too—it was endless. Tired and annoyed, we just ignored them.

The news

That evening, I finally felt some relief sitting at home. After finishing homework and dinner, I sat with my family to watch the news. Suddenly, the reporter showed the photos of two boys who had been lost and found.

I leaned closer. It was me and Tom! “AAARRRRGGGHHHH!” I screamed.

My parents gave me a puzzled look. I told them everything—that people had been asking the same questions all day, and now even the news was covering it. It was so, so annoying.

This is the first in a two-part series. The second part will be published next week

Shreyashi Sigdel

Grade VII

Euro School, Chhauni

The process of thought seems quite complex but it is due to two systems of brains at work. The first system represents conscious thoughts like adding or multiplying some numbers. It is the system that you think you are. It takes effort to use this part of the brain because this system is usually lazy but is capable of catching and correcting mistakes. This is not the only major major system in play but there is also system two. This system two is mainly responsible for the unconscious thought and is really quick as it needs to be because of the copious amount of information coming through our senses. 

This system filters out the unnecessary information and only picks out the relevant without the conscious system in play. This system also fills in the necessary bits of our conscious thought from system one. 

Each of this system is related to our main memory structures, the system two quick interpretation is possible due to long term memory and familiarity including the library of information built in through our life. In contrast, system one exists entirely in working memory making it possible to hold only 4 to five noble things in mind at once. In demonstration we can remember only a few digits of a random number at once but if the number is familiar it is quite easy to remember. 

This process is learning and the process of learning is simply passing off information of short term memory from system one to system two to make it long term. In order for this to happen, one needs to actively engage with the information and with effort. In demonstration, tying up your shoelace for the first time was quite difficult and it probably took all the working memory at that time but now we don’t even need to think about it as it has already been passed off to system two due to continuous effortful engagement with the information. 

This is also known as muscle memory although it is not in the muscles it is still in the brain controlled by system two. Sometimes what we think of superhuman abilities comes down to incredible automation skills of system two developed through the relentless practice of system one.

Shreeshant Rijal

Class XII

KMC, Bagbazzar

Human settlements on earth have been divided into various categories—cities, towns, suburbs and far-off villages. As a human settlement continues to grow in size, open spaces start to become dearer. Does it mean that living in a city should necessarily be equal to living without sufficient open public spaces? Do we children and the generation ahead have to accept silently that we are destined to live with all the disadvantages that a bad urbanization brings along? Who is responsible for the ugliness and the mess in a badly planned city? 

We children are not responsible for that, are we? Yet, we are the ones who are affected the most. That is why it is important that we must seize every opportunity to raise awareness. Discussions about the value of open public places, such as city squares, parks, playgrounds, and stadiums, are essential. These days, children in cities are criticized for staying indoors. But hardly anybody bothers to ask if there are any dedicated playgrounds for children in their neighborhoods.

I used to wonder why open spaces were important—until my mother told me about the 2015 earthquake. That was the time when people realized the critical need for open spaces in cities. Kathmandu Valley cannot undo the mistakes it made in the process of urbanization, but cities like Tulsipur have a chane to learn from them.

Open spaces in cities offer us many benefits. They help maintain groundwater level through the seepage of rainwater. They provide children with a safe space to play. Parks and their greenery can promote internal tourism and help clean the air. Open spaces can also serve as venues for various cultural shows and social gatherings. 

In conclusion, while planning and developing a city, the government should not ignore any aspect of urbanization that contributes to livability. 

Saanvi Dhital

Grade VI 

Sanskar Pathshala, Dang

I remember Dashain as a tender embrace. My cousins and I would race barefoot across the terrace, jamara tucked behind our ears, tika still damp on our foreheads. Steel plates clinked under the weight of sel roti, stacked like golden memories. The air was thick with marigold and camphor, madal drums pulsing softly in the background. In those sunlit rooms, family gathered without distraction, fully present, stitched together by ritual and story. My bajai would hum a bhajan in the kitchen and say, “Aaile ko keti-keta haru, yesto Dashain kahile dekhcha ra?”, translating to these kids nowadays, what would they know of a Dashain like this? 

She said in a melancholic tone. Like she already knew we’d grow up into a different kind of Dashain, one wrapped in Wi-Fi signals and busy schedules, where the warmth of the sunlit kitchen would be replaced by the glow of a screen. 

Now, the air feels quieter. The plates are still full. The rituals still happen. But more often, they unfold behind screens, typically on WhatsApp calls, filtered through Instagram stories, caught in between video edits and captions. We say “hello” instead of “namaste,” “thanks” instead of “dhanyabaad.” And somewhere in that shift, the soul of the festival feels like it’s slipping. 

My mother also speaks of a Dashain that stretched across days, a sacred pause when neighbors became family and the night was carried by stories passed down through voice and memory, not typed out. Each gesture held meaning. Each offering had a purpose. Even the smallest thing, placing jamara under a mattress, sweeping the puja room at dawn, applying tika with both hands was loaded with history. Today, those same gestures are often performed without question, reduced to a quiet shrug: “This is just what we do.” 

For many of us, festivals have become curated performances. We wear the traditional clothes, we light the lamps, we take part in the puja but too often through the lens of a phone. Culture is dressed up for the feed. Aesthetics sometimes eclipse meaning. The perfect photo matters more than the imperfect moment. And in the process, something quieter, something sacred, begins to fade. 

Kathmandu itself is changing. Sprawling family courtyards have turned into compact homes. Siblings live across countries. Families are spread thin across time zones. The altar may now be a single candle, lit in between meetings or homework. The spirit of celebration has become a matter of logistics. What was once rooted in sambandha, deep relational ties, can now feel like a checklist: tika, thali, photo, post. 

Tihar, another example, used to arrive gently. Flickering diyos, whispered songs, the unspoken warmth between brothers and sisters. A festival of light that lived not just in lamps but in shared silence. Now, celebrations often boom from Bluetooth speakers and dance to algorithms. TikTok trends replace traditional songs. The ritual is still there, but sometimes, it feels hollow, almost like a paper version of something once carved in stone. 

I watch friends post stunning rangolis and perfectly arranged thalis, and it’s beautiful. But it also feels rehearsed. The whispered instructions of grandparents are replaced with online tutorials. The chants become short audio clips played from someone else’s phone. This is a new way to celebrate, but I constantly wonder: does it still carry the same weight? 

Language is part of this quiet fading. Our mother tongues like: Newar, Maithili, Tamang, Gurung, among others carry within them stories, humor, songs, and wisdom. But they, too, are softening. Yielding to convenience, to English, to what feels easier. I find myself translating in my head before I speak to elders. And when a language disappears, so does a whole way of understanding the world. 

To be clear, this isn’t about resisting change. Culture isn’t something to preserve in glass. It’s alive, which means it adapts, shifts, and evolves. I’m not asking us to put down our phones or cancel our posts. Social media connects us. It lets us share, remember, and create. It brings a global Nepali diaspora together in ways once impossible. 

But when it becomes the only lens through which we experience culture, we risk turning festivals into content and content alone. 

What I’m asking is this: can we slow down? Can we ask why we do what we do? Can we pause before we post, just long enough to understand? Can we listen to the stories behind the rituals before they slip through the cracks? 

Festivals don’t need to be picture-perfect. They need to be felt. Lived in messy, honest, deeply human ways. Culture doesn’t need to be aesthetic, but it does need to be meaningful. We don’t need to be perfect keepers of tradition. But we should care more about what our customs mean when no one is watching, than how they look when everyone is. Because when rituals lose their roots, they become routines. And when tradition becomes a trend, it no longer grounds us. 

Our festivals still breathe. They still carry power. But they ask us to meet them halfway. To be present. To care. To listen. To remember. Because if we keep culture alive only for the feed, what remains when the screen fades to black? 

Soniva Vaidya

Grade XII

The British School, Kathmandu