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I was taken aback when a man wearing a helmet approached and asked, “Searching for a room?” All the major festivities were over, and Christmas was yet to arrive. It was that time of the year when you couldn’t get a hotel room in Lakeside. But strangely, in the middle of the street, the man was offering me a room—and that too at a price way below Lakeside’s standards.

“I have already booked a room,” I said, more to myself because the man had already walked past me. But as he left, I caught a whiff of alcohol from him. He must have thought that I didn’t want to talk to him because he was drunk. The truth is that I am of the conviction that it’s not important to strike up a conversation with everyone, everywhere. 

As I stood on the sidewalk, I noticed a group of young girls walking into a dingy lounge across the street. Their clothes looked outlandish, I looked down at my own baggy jeans, hoping—even praying—that they didn’t look as odd.

Lakeside is not where I come regularly. I was here today because a group was joining me for dinner.

The only people I knew from the group were my two male friends, and I had never met the three girls coming with them. The girls were my friends’ friends from their school days.

As time passed, I began realizing that going to a bar and taking a slug of a drink would have been a prudent move. But I dismissed the idea because I was meeting those girls for the first time. I didn’t want to smell of alcohol and sound slurry. No civilized person would want to leave a bad impression during the very first meeting. To say I was excited to meet them would be an understatement. In the afternoon, when my friend had phoned me to inform me about the dinner party at Lakeside with his lady friends, I was thrilled by the idea of meeting unknown girls. Over the years, that friend of mine had never missed inviting me to any of the parties he went to. Perhaps he found it easier when I went along with him because he spoke even less than I did. This time, my excitement knew no bounds as it had been a while since I attended any gatherings with a group of girls.

When my relationship ended last year, I had vowed that I wouldn’t date anyone, but it was just a moment of frustration. For a year, I didn’t meet any girls and even avoided them when they approached me. It always took me by surprise when a girl texted me on Facebook, saying she’d love to have coffee with me. I may be dumb, but I knew at least that I didn’t have enough qualities to charm a girl. Most girls found me boring because of my involvement in writing and literature, while others wanted to meet me only to talk about how literature works.

At around 9 pm, I got a phone call from one of my friends, telling me that he and the other male friend would arrive in five minutes. I didn’t ask him if the girls were still coming because it would have sounded desperate. Also, if I had asked about the girls, my friend would have found some way to make fun of me when he arrived.

A red Vespa scooter stopped right where I was standing. The boys arrived, both of them wearing matching blue jeans, as if they were twins. As they approached, with no girls in sight, I felt a jolt of disappointment. Would I be there so early if the girls were not coming? But before I could ask about the girls, a friend said, “The girls are somewhere near here. They were saying they would be with another group until we arrived. So just let me give a call and ask where they are.” That news brought some relief to my senses as I wouldn’t have to listen to the boys ranting about their studies. No one would want to spend a night with geeks grunting constantly about money and studies. I wish I could convince my friends that there was more to life than just devouring course books. I mean, what’s with these engineer boys and course books? It’s not like I didn’t make efforts to replace their course books with classics and rom-com novels. But no matter how much you train the fish, it can’t swim outside the water. Tired of their ways, I stopped forcing them into reading novels, while incessantly being the victim of their superior jokes that only engineers could tell.

When the girl answered the phone on the other end, we spontaneously walked toward Busy Bee because it was the only vibrant pub in sight.

“We are right in front of Busy Bee,“ the friend murmured into the phone, while the other friend and I started making small talk. The girl on the other end said something I couldn’t quite make out.

“What? You’re there? Wait,” the friend turned around and peered at the dinghy lounge across the street. The girl in a black dress emerged and waved her hands at us. My nose scrunched up in disgust and surprise. I beckoned the friend and asked if they were the girls we were planning to meet.

“Yeah. They were the friends I was talking about. The three of them and we studied together till the tenth,” the friend with the phone in his hand said and pointed at another friend.

I laughed inwardly, suppressing a loud laugh. I didn’t tell my friends that I was standing on the sidewalk and glancing at them from across the street all the while. The girl in a black dress went inside the lounge again, possibly to pay the bill and fetch the others. While waiting for the girls, the friend, still holding the phone, looked tensely at me and mumbled, “You saw her? The one in a black dress. You’re going to talk to her tonight while we focus on the other two. We both are on the talking stage with the two other ladies. It’s weird that after years of knowing them, we are finally feeling something for them.”

“I’m not surprised at all. You know you both have always been like this. What a weird set of characters!” I remarked and met their eyes in succession. They laughed hilariously loud, and by the time they stopped laughing, the girl in a black dress was already behind them. Pushing her way through the boys, she appeared right in front of me, her nose stud glinting in the night lights. I hoped she didn’t notice me all the time I was standing there. When her right hand suspended in the mid-air, inviting me to shake her hand, I wondered whether I would have barged into the dingy lounge had I known that the girls were my friends’ friends.

The World Antimicrobial Resistance (AMR) Awareness Week was celebrated from Nov 18–24, with the theme “Educate. Advocate. Act Now”, had a limited impact on community awareness and behavioral change toward rational antimicrobial use.

When bacteria, fungi, viruses, and parasites evolve over time and lose their ability to respond to medications, it’s known as AMR, which makes infections more difficult to treat and increases the risk of disease transmission, severe illness, and death. Designated as a ‘silent pandemic’ AMR has claimed three lives per minute, totaling around 36m deaths since 1990. Without urgent policy interventions, and preventative actions, the current projection indicates an alarming rise to 1.9m deaths annually by 2050. 

The economic impact is equally staggering, with the World Bank’s 2017 projection estimating that AMR could cost up to $1trn globally by mid-century and force an additional 28m into extreme poverty by 2050, with 93 percent of them residing in low-income countries. AMR was associated with 23,200 fatalities and attributed to 6,400 additional deaths in Nepal in 2019. The country ranks 52nd globally and 2nd in South Asia for age-standardized AMR mortality rates per 100,000 population.

AMR includes not only bacterial infections and antibiotic misuse but also resistance to antifungal medications, crucial for treating life-threatening infections in immunocompromised individuals. Fungal illnesses are prevalent in Nepal, especially among those with chronic conditions like diabetes, HIV, cancer, lung disease, and tuberculosis. 

A 2015 study estimated 1.87 percent Nepali population suffers from serious fungal infections annually, with conditions such as invasive aspergillosis and cryptococcal meningitis being prevalent among HIV/AIDS patients. Another 2020 research in Bhaktapur found that one-third diabetic patients had fungal infections, caused by Candida and Aspergillus species, resistance to fluconazole and ketoconazole, both broad-spectrum azole antifungals. This underscores the urgent need for improved diagnosis and treatment strategies to tackle antifungal resistance in Nepal.

Antifungal resistance affects both human and animal, with escalating antifungal use in veterinary and agriculture contributing to resistant strains. This dual threat compromises treatments, impacts livestock productivity, undermines food security and economics. Studies highlight widespread fungal contamination in food, feed, and livestock, emphasizing the urgent need for awareness, surveillance, rational use, stewardship and containment strategies to safeguard public health and agricultural productivity.

Aflatoxin contamination is a significant concern in Nepal, particularly in maize, rice, and animal feed. A 2005 study by Koirala and team observed high aflatoxin in staple foods, posing health risks like liver damage and immune suppression. Another 2024 research by Agriculture and Forestry University revealed very high levels of aflatoxin contamination in the dairy milk in Kathmandu, presenting a serious public health issue. Resistant fungal infections in livestock have reduced milk production and caused health issues.

The aquaculture sector in Nepal is also affected by fungal pathogens, which contribute to fish morbidity and mortality, threatening the livelihoods of small-scale farmers, as highlighted by Shrestha and team in 2020 through research at four fish farms. Similarly, a 2009 study by Aryal and Karki from Nepal Agriculture Research Council found a high prevalence of aflatoxins in poultry feed, further impacting the rural economy.

Climate change exacerbates the fungal threat by promoting fungal growth and aflatoxin production through erratic rainfall and seasonal variation. Poor air quality increases airborne fungi, worsening respiratory and skin infections, particularly in immunocompromised individuals. Shifting monsoon patterns and poor storage practices raise contamination risks, especially in crops like rice straw used for animal feed. Droughts enhance spore release from Coccidioides, while flooding spreads spores. Climate change also enables fungi to spread into new areas and adapt to higher temperatures, increasing the prevalence of pathogens like Candida auris.

The diagnostic approach to antifungal resistance in Nepal involves several key components. Precise fungal pathogen diagnosis is crucial for effective treatment, with traditional methods like laboratory culture and morphological identification being time-consuming and error-prone. Recent studies emphasize the need for rapid diagnostic tests to identify resistant strains for targeted treatment. Leveraging facilities developed during the Covid-19 pandemic, such as PCR, Next-generation sequencing (NGS) and serological tests, could enable robust, faster, precise diagnoses. 

The WHO’s AWaRe framework, which categorizes antifungals into Access for common infections, Watch for broader-spectrum requiring monitoring, and Reserve for last-resort options, can guide prescribing practices to contain resistance. Implementing this framework can optimize antifungal prescribing while reducing resistance. Nepal can adapt this framework to suit local healthcare needs, incorporating more accessible, user-friendly methods. 

However, patterns of antifungals use reveal concerning trends, with practitioners relying on broad-spectrum antifungals without proper diagnostics, leading to overuse and resistance. Additionally, antifungals used as growth promoters in livestock fosters resistance in animal pathogens, posing risks to human health via zoonotic transmission.

Antifungal resistance in Nepal is driven by several challenges such as limited awareness, inadequate surveillance, poor stewardship and weak healthcare infrastructure. Addressing this, the government must establish robust monitoring systems for antifungal resistance in food and feed, supported by regulatory frameworks to protect public health. Evidence-based education and training programs for healthcare providers, veterinarians, and farmers are essential to promote rational antifungal use and raise community awareness about contamination risks. Integrating fungal infections into livestock insurance and providing essential antifungal medications free of charge can improve accessibility.

Strengthening collaboration among the Department of Livestock Services, ‘One Health’ stakeholders and local governments is vital for enhancing prevention, diagnosis, and treatment capabilities. Implementing standard treatment guidelines and rational use policies can help mitigate overuse. Cross-sectoral collaboration among agricultural experts, veterinarians, and public health officials is vital. Paired with community campaigns, it can drive behavioral change toward responsible antifungal practices. Research institutions should prioritize studying local resistance mechanisms and innovating new solutions. Adopting the ‘One Health’ approach provides a framework for integrated interventions across human, animal, agricultural and environmental sectors, essential for effectively combating the escalating threat of antifungal resistance.

The authors are researchers at the Nexus Institute of Research and Innovation specializing in AMR

Slow and steady loses the race because the rabbit is wide awake. Be the rabbit and make a habit—to be on time.

It is not time that is running away but you who are unable to chase it. Time has always stood still; the clocks are just an invention for humans to be reminded that they are fleeting away. It sure is philosophical until you stop questioning ‘why’ and start answering ‘what.’ 

Generally, people who are late blame it on their mental health, saying, “I’ve got ADHD and get distracted very easily,” and picking up mental health symptoms on Google, trying to match them all that was not there. Some genuine, and most trying their best to make it. Infuriating is when some are chronically late for any reason other than the fact that they don't care enough about the people who are waiting for them. Encountering the problem, and excuses follow with “I was going to do this, but that came up.” But of all problems. 

Things take a turn when you are on time, but the lateness around swallows your productivity. Shift blame persists, and the traffic is accused. Everyone is in a hurry but rarely on time. 

A New York Times article suggests that consistent lateness is driven by optimism, such as believing a 25-minute commute will only take 10 minutes. Take that commute and slam it on the Kathmandu roads; you are gifted 15 minutes more. 

If you were a college student studying under the Tribhuvan University (TU) administration, it would be a miracle if your exam results came on time. I too waited and enjoyed the long holidays for them to publish. Being at the end of my second year and getting the first-year results was funny and fascinating. Honestly, everything was sadly expected from the saviours of the education system, only except in 2017, when nine faculties were given the results within three months. The World Bank had given them Rs 50m for timely publication.

Tardiness applies to not just coming on time but also when the work trusted upon is not met on time. It’s like a domino effect where you battle out each and every person’s impending procrastination, which is engraved in the Nepali personality. One would often disappear for a tea break. Astonishingly, when it comes to food, people are usually on time. 

There would be two types of late people: the deadliner, who finds their peak adrenaline rush nearer to the deadline, and the egoist, who’d be smug with the work done in the littlest time possible. I place myself in the former type. 

If there is a monkey on your back, call the punctually-challenged an hour before the planned time. Who knows, for I could be the monkey. Sometimes you don’t feel motivated enough to be there just to see an empty room, so you’d rather fall in with the herd. 

Now imagine in the fairy tales of Kantipur that you were getting a hefty sum of money for coming in early—increased productivity, improved relationships, a better reputation, and maybe refined planning. A method of positive reinforcement. Or maybe negative punishment, to be fired or expelled after three strikes, then trickles in the timeliness. Many students at my college would return home only because they were late to avoid facing detention—props to the creatives for finding a loophole.

There used to be a time when the Kathmandu denizens would hear the current-coughing Ghantaghar bell sounds around the valley, but today you’d just snooze your blaring alarm five minutes more, thinking, “I’ll just follow the Nepali time.”

In his famous poem on Nepal’s societal and political dynamics, Bhupi Sherchan described the country as ‘hallai halla ko desh’ (land of uproar and rumors). Reflecting on that sentiment, there was a time when whispers spread about Indian sweet shop owners allegedly conspiring against Nepal’s gudpak industry. This was during a crackdown by the Department of Food Technology and Quality Control (DFTQC) on gudpak shops in Kathmandu’s New Road in September 2011.

The raids unearthed alarming levels of toxins, bacteria, and acidic elements in gudpak, which could cause food poisoning. Shop owners faced legal battles and imprisonment, leaving many to believe it marked the end of this beloved Nepali delicacy. But gudpak proved resilient, making a remarkable comeback despite the setbacks.

For me, gudpak is more than just a sweet treat. It’s a comforting slice of my childhood, infused with nostalgia. Living in the UK, I often try to replicate its taste with Indian or Pakistani sweets like habsi haluwa. But nothing quite matches the unique charm of gudpak. Every bite reminds me of Kathmandu, where it was not just food but an emotional and communal experience.

Back in the day, gudpak was a treasured gift. Whenever someone traveled from Pokhara to Kathmandu, the one repeated request was, “Bring back gudpak.” It wasn’t merely a snack but a symbol of love, capable of lighting up entire households. I recall waiting eagerly for my uncle’s visits, certain he’d bring that familiar box of gudpak. It wasn’t just our family that celebrated. Even neighbors joined in on the excitement. Gudpak, in those moments, was about more than taste—it was about shared joy and community.

Though many renowned Gudpak shops in Kathmandu have closed, the sweet remains alive in my memories. Gudpak is a part of my identity, tying me to Kathmandu’s bustling streets and my childhood in Nepal.

The story of gudpak’s creation is as layered as the sweet itself. Some believe it emerged from Nepali confectioners’ creativity, blending leftover sweets into a harmonious new recipe. Others trace its origins to the early 20th century, crediting Panna Lal Maskey, who introduced gudpak to Kathmandu in 1933 at his Ason shop. The name itself derives from ‘gud’ (jaggery or edible gum) and ‘pak(h)’ (the process of cooking). This innovative fusion secured gudpak’s place in Nepal’s culinary heritage.

Gudpak starts with a creamy base of khuwa or khoa, made from buffalo or cow milk, renowned for its rich texture and flavor. The finest khuwa, often sourced from Banepa or Panauti, can even stand alone as a treat. Nuts, dried fruits, and spices—like almonds, cashews, dates, and watermelon seeds—are then folded into it. The result is a fragrant, caramel-colored delight, best enjoyed fresh for its gooey and soft texture.

Modern gudpak production has evolved, with gas stoves replacing traditional wood-fired methods. While techniques have changed, the essence of gudpak—a nutrient-dense, flavorful confection—remains intact.

Among gudpak varieties, sutkeri gudpak holds special significance. Made specifically for new mothers, it includes herbs like battisa powder (a blend of 32 herbs) and jesthalangwadi (another 14-herb mix). It’s believed to support postpartum recovery, providing energy, warmth, and immunity. Even today, it’s a cherished gift for new mothers, symbolizing nourishment and care.

Gudpak is a cultural emblem. A 2010 survey revealed that gudpak was particularly popular among the Newa community, often featuring in celebrations and festivals. Annually, about 579 metric tonnes of Gudpak are produced, with the industry valued at Rs 192.5 million. A kilogram of quality gudpak sells for around Rs 800, reflecting its continued importance in Nepali culture.

Despite its cultural significance, the gudpak industry faces challenges. Many iconic shops have closed due to competition from Indian sweets and Western desserts. However, stalwarts like Shree Ganesh Mithai Pasal and Best Mithai Sweet Shop continue to uphold the tradition, catering to loyal customers with authentic gudpak and pustakari.

Gudpak’s legacy endures, connecting generations and preserving its place in Nepal’s culinary and cultural landscape. In Kathmandu, gudpak remains a beloved treat, especially during festivals and as a gift for loved ones.

Whenever I long for home, I close my eyes and relive the sweet memory of gudpak—its rich flavor and emotional resonance tethering me to my roots in Nepal. It’s more than a confection. It’s an irreplaceable part of my life and identity.