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Detox drinks have, over the past few years, gotten a bad rap as something that is used unnecessarily for weight loss. But there is more to these amazing drinks that can have a horde of health benefits when used right. They can soothe an upset gut, aid digestion, help clear your skin, and even rejuvenate you after a tiring day. Here are some of our favorites, including how to enjoy them.

Turmeric water

Topping the list is the very popular ‘besar paani’ that we tend to drink when we have a cold but this golden concoction is a potent anti-inflammatory drink that we must include in our diets to keep our immune systems strong and fight off infections and illnesses. Great for when you are feeling slightly under the weather and also otherwise, this drink is simple to make and easy on the tummy. Most people tend to drink it on an empty stomach, first thing in the morning. Simply add a pinch of turmeric to plain water, warm or room-temperature, give it a stir, and sip on it. Have it in a clear glass, looking at the brilliant yellow hue.

Amla, ginger shots

This is really fun to make and to have as well. We recommend you buy shot glasses to enjoy this amazing, nutrients-rich concoction. Amla ginger shots are the easiest way to give your body a health boost every morning. Amla and ginger both are powerhouses of nutrients and antioxidants and, when taken regularly, can help tackle a variety of health issues. Amla is the richest source of vitamin C, containing 20 times more than oranges. It helps boost white blood cell production and strengthens immunity. Ginger also has anti-inflammatory properties and can help protect against seasonal illnesses. Together, they can help cleanse your body from the inside. Blend one or two fresh amlas with an inch long piece of ginger and a little water till it becomes smooth. Strain the mixture and add a pinch of black salt for taste and drink it on an empty stomach.

Cucumber and mint infused water

One of the most cooling and refreshing drinks, this is a really hydrating mix for hot summer months. If you are one of those people who have to be reminded to drink water, then this one will make you chug it by the liter. Simply wash and slice some cucumbers and add it to a large jar of fresh water. Wash and crush some sprigs of mint and add that to the mix as well. You can also add some lemon slices or just let it be with cucumber and mint. Let the water sit for half an hour and then pour it into a glass to enjoy sip by sip. Cucumber and mint both have antioxidant properties that help protect cells from damage caused by free radicals.

Cumin and carom tea

Most of us drink black or milk tea to start our day or wind down after a long day with a cup of oolong tea. But what if we told you there was a healthier alternative to caffeine laden teas that could potentially mess with your sleep cycle? Jeera (cumin) and ajwain (carom) are spices that are found in most kitchens and you can use these staples to make a healthy tea that calms your nerves and helps you relax. All you have to do is boil a teaspoon of each of these seeds in water and strain and drink the golden liquid. Both these spices are known for their digestive properties and help to relieve gas and indigestion. Studies have shown that cumin water also helps stabilize blood sugar levels. The drink aids detoxification and helps boost metabolism as well.

Fennel water

Did you know that you can make a refreshing drink by simply soaking fennel seeds in water overnight? Most of us consume fennel seeds after meals. We have it at home and most restaurants also serve this, along with other dry spices, at the end of a meal. But soaking fennel seeds and drinking the water can have a lot more benefits than simply consuming a few pinches of fennel seeds. It can help build immunity, aid digestion, help with water retention, promote a healthy complexion, and support weight loss. It can also help deal with period pains. If you like a warm drink to kick start your mornings, then you can add a teaspoon of fennel seeds to one and a half cups of water, bring it to a boil, and reduce it to a cup and strain and drink it as a tea as well. You don’t have to soak the seeds overnight for this.

Cabbage, beet, and ginger juice

We all know how great the classic apple, beet, carrot juice is. Cabbage, beet, ginger, on the other hand, might sound like an odd mix, and even seem a little unappealing but hear us out. It’s a tried and tested recipe that has been a hit with people of all ages and taste preferences. Cucumber and cabbage help to eliminate excess fluid in the body while ginger helps to accelerate metabolism. This helps to burn fat and aids weight loss. You need two cabbage leaves, a tablespoon of fresh mint leaves, one small beet, half a small cucumber, one teaspoon grated ginger and a cup of water to make this drink. Blend all the ingredients together, strain the mixture, and drink it. You can also keep it in the fridge for upto a day.

The worship of Salhesh is deeply rooted in the traditions of the Dusadh caste, a historically marginalized group within the Madhesi community. Though the caste system continues to influence social structures across the Madhes from east to west, the reverence for Salhesh unites people across caste lines during his annual celebration.

Salhesh, also known as Shailesh—meaning ‘King of the Mountains’—is regarded as the domestic deity of the Dusadhs. He is believed to have lived during the 7th or 8th century in Mahisautha, where he was known as King Jayabardhan Salhesh. He was the eldest of four siblings: his brothers were Motiram and Budhesar, his sister Banaspati, and his niece Karikanha. Banaspati was known as the mother queen of Bagh Fort. The stories of Salhesh form the basis of a vibrant dance-drama performed by a priest, accompanied by a large traditional drum known as the dholak.

According to tradition, Salhesh was the first chaukidar (night watchman) of the village, earning him heroic status within the Dusadh caste. Their traditional role was to guard villages at night, receiving paddy and coins as payment. In every village across the Madhes region, there exists a shrine dedicated to Salhesh, known as Salhes Sthan. These shrines, usually found under the sacred peepal tree on the village outskirts, consist of clay platforms representing characters from Salhesh folklore.

Worship at these shrines is conducted with deep reverence. Devotees offer rice, incense, sandals, and other ritual items, accompanied by folk songs, such as this one from the Salhesh Ballad:

Khan khan rahaichhi ham Beluka Garhme
Khan rahaichhi Sarabag me
Manik Dah me snan karatchhe, Garh pokhari me Mai sumarait chhi
Bhagaichhi ta yeki Maliniya ke khatir
Gadhpakariya me Maiya ke sumirichhi

 (Sometimes I live in Belukagarh, sometimes in Sarabag.
I bathe in Manik Dah and remember Mother Goddess Durga.
I wander in search of my beloved Maliniya,
And recall the goddess in Gadhpakariya.)

As a young man, Salhesh is said to have bathed daily in Manik Dah, a local pond, before heading to a garden—now known as Salhesh Phulbari—to pluck fresh flowers for his beloved. These routines have become symbolic rituals reenacted during worship. Salhesh is revered not only as a historical figure but as a cultural icon whose myth is woven into the social fabric of Mithila, both in Nepal and across the border in India.

As cultural expert Prem Khatri puts it: “Salhesh lives in the minds of the people of Mithila—from Nepal Tarai to the holy Ganges in India. His legends blur national borders, allowing human connection to transcend political boundaries during festivals like Ram Navami (Chaite Dashain).”

The dance-drama honoring Salhesh is performed annually with grandeur, resembling a village fair. While the deity is primarily worshipped by the Dusadh community, people of all castes participate. The rituals are conducted in open spaces, without elaborate temple structures. A priest, believed to be spiritually possessed by the deity, leads the ceremony. He shivers, chants mantras, walks on the edge of a sword, and distributes rice and flowers as blessings—actions meant to signify Salhesh’s divine presence.

Renowned Indian scholar Radha Krishna Chaudhary writes: “It is practically a one-man show—the priest trembles, shouts, walks on swords, sings ballads, and blesses the audience. The entire performance is thrilling, sometimes inspiring, and often a delight to the senses.”

Salhesh is especially honored during the Nepali New Year at places like Mahisautha, Salhesh Phulbari, and Patari Pokhari. In Siraha, the Haram tree near Salhesh’s temple is a source of wonder. Each year, a white garland mysteriously blooms in the tree’s center, believed to represent Salhesh’s unfulfilled lover, Dauna Malin. Legend has it she appears once a year in floral form to spend a fleeting moment with Salhesh before fading away. Despite local botanists’ interest, this phenomenon remains unexplained and continues to attract pilgrims and researchers from both Nepal and India.

Historically viewed as a lower caste, the Dusadhs—also known as Paswan—were denied equal status for centuries. However, in modern democratic Nepal, caste-based discrimination is on the decline, and all communities are increasingly seen as equals. Today, Dusadhs participate fully in social and civic life, and their patron deity, Salhesh, has become a symbol of resilience, pride, and cultural identity.

Another important site, Salhesgarh, contains an ancient mound believed to be linked to the deity. It houses a small shrine (Gahwar) to Salhesh, now in a state of neglect but still held sacred by the community.

Presenting their debut exhibition, “What Once Was,” Katyani Rai and Sabita Gyawali explore the profound yet fragile nature of loss. Whether it’s the farewell of a loved one or the slow fading of love itself, their works invite viewers to contemplate the emotional weight of impermanence. Through distinct artistic styles and personal narratives, Rai and Gyawali craft a lasting testament to grief, attachment, and memory—transforming fleeting moments into something enduring.

How do you release the emotions you carry? Would you allow grief to take the shape of a melody? Through “What Once Was,” Rai and Gyawali remind us that art has the power to preserve, reshape, and reimagine loss. In their work, pain finds permanence, and what once felt lost is rediscovered in new and meaningful ways.

Katyani Rai: Etching Emotion into Art

How do you capture emotion in art? For Rai, the answer lies in the meticulous process of etching—a technique that transforms raw feeling into the tangible. Each line carved into the zinc plate is not just an action but a moment of release, an adrenaline-fueled act of creation where grief, love, and longing take on permanent form.

Stepping into “What Once Was,” one is immediately drawn into Rai’s world. Her works are deeply interconnected, seamlessly blending poetry and visual art. In pieces like “Maybe It’s Mercy, Maybe It’s Sin,” she explores the ache of holding on to someone who may never return. Paired with verses that speak to grief’s inevitable passage, her art becomes an intimate dialogue with the viewer:

“Maybe it’s mercy, maybe it’s sin

To keep holding on where we should have been

Maybe the earth just knows more than we do

That grief is a thing that must pass through.

The night takes what the night knows

What the hand can’t hold, the wind will sow.”

This poetic infusion enhances the emotional depth of her pieces, drawing audiences into a space of introspection. She explains, “The line is an inner conflict—perhaps it is ‘mercy’ to keep remembering, to cherish what was, but maybe it is also a ‘sin’, a form of self-punishment to dwell on something that no longer exists. Is the uncertainty kind to ourselves to hold on, or does it only deepen the wound?”

The quiet drift of things left behind evokes the universal experience of waiting, longing, and remembering. In contrast, works like” Forest of Unspoken Memories” and “Where Wild Ones Wait” convey a sense of hesitation—as if Rai is holding back her most intense emotions, while still allowing glimpses of her grief. This hesitation mirrors the common struggle of confronting one’s own feelings—a delicate balance between vulnerability and self-protection.

Her work “Untitled” reflects her belief that “life moves in a circle,” incorporating philosophical reflections on interconnectedness. Ravens, a recurring symbol in her art, appear as mournful figures of remembrance. In pieces such as “For I’m Grass, For I’m Stone, For I’m Dust That Longs for Home,” these birds serve as silent witnesses to loss, reinforcing themes of memory and impermanence. Titles like “New Moon 3:03 am,” “3:03,” and “Where the Blossoms Fell So Did We” suggest moments frozen in time—capturing a sacred stillness.

Meanwhile, in “Where Will You Go If the Stars Won’t Align,” “Towards the Field of Flowers,” “I Call It Mine,” Rai’s longing is palpable. Though lengthy, the title carries irony—an acceptance of fate woven with quiet hope. It subtly hints at the presence of the raven, reinforcing the ideas of solitude and lingering grief.

Her interconnected pieces, “Until I’m No Longer Flesh,” “But a Leaf, a Root, a Fading Shadow of Rain,” and “Tracing Silence,” are rich in symbolism, often incorporating lotus leaves. Rai describes the lotus as a flower that blooms in the most unexpected places—thriving in murky waters yet remaining untouched in its beauty. “Even in the dirtiest places, a diamond exists. And in my heart, I am still searching for it,” she reflects.

Through her work, Rai does not merely depict loss—she carves it, writes it, and transforms it into something permanent. Her piece Heaven Hangs Heavy conveys the experience of self-discovery, illustrating how Rai invites viewers to sit with their emotions, embrace fluctuations, and discover beauty in the most unexpected places.

Sabita Gyawali: The Softness of Memory

How gentle can a memory be? Are all memories light and delicate, or do some carry a quiet weight of longing? While grief is often seen as heavy, Gyawali approaches it differently—through softness, fragility, and the fleeting nature of recollection.

Gyawali captures the short-lived nature of memory through delicate paper and pastels. Her technique of pressing fabric into the medium gives her work a flowing, organic texture—adding a depth that ordinary paper cannot hold. The result is more than a surface; it becomes a metaphor for memory itself: fragile, passing, and deeply personal, slipping through our grasp even as we try to hold on.

Her piece, “Before the Winter Comes,” draws a poetic parallel between the inevitability of change and the migration of birds, reflecting the departures we experience in life. “Traces of Yesterday,” a series of five intricate works featuring pressed flowers, preserves fleeting beauty and offers a quiet meditation on nostalgia and the passage of time. In “Letters to the Unwritten,” Gyawali explores the weight of unspoken words. Handmade envelopes represent the letters never sent, the conversations never had.

“These empty envelopes hold the words I never wrote—and the ones that never reached me,” she shares, expressing the deep yearning and unresolved emotions that linger in silence.

Longing and absence are further explored in “Traces of You in the Wind,” which captures the quiet hope that someone who has gone might still find their way back. Similarly, “Window to Yesterday” consists of smaller works where windows and grill frames serve as gateways—opening up a vista to gaze outward. Much like her oil paintings, these blend sensory and visual memory through incense-burnt cutouts, where scent and sight merge to evoke both nostalgia and release.

Yet not all of Gyawali’s work centers on longing—some delve into identity and emotional entanglement. “Stirred by Your Touch” is meticulously crafted in pressed paper—a blend of fabric and incense-burned materials. This process becomes meditative, reflecting her signature approach of layering while still evoking softness and fragility. The work highlights the struggle of holding onto someone for so long that the boundaries between self and other begin to blur. It speaks to the push and pull of love, loss, and the search for self in the echoes of another’s presence.

Through her delicate yet vivid pieces, Gyawali reminds us that memory is not just something we recall—it is something we carry, something we feel, and sometimes, something we must learn to release.

A dialogue of emotion

Though Gyawali and Rai have distinct artistic styles, both navigate profound emotions through their work. Rai etches her grief into permanence, using the physical act of creation as catharsis, while Gyawali constructs memory through soft, layered textures that express its fleeting, ephemeral nature. One is marked by intensity, the other by delicacy—yet both seek to make sense of love and loss through their chosen mediums.

Rai’s art is raw and bold, allowing grief to take form as if carving sorrow into existence. In contrast, Gyawali’s work embodies the impermanence of memory, preserving delicate traces of what once was. Together, their works create a conversation—a balance between permanence and impermanence, between holding on and letting go.

“What Once Was” explores the deeply personal nature of sorrow, echoing works like Bharati Mukherjee’s “The Management of Grief,” where loss is experienced through both personal and societal lenses. Just as Mukherjee’s protagonist navigates grief in her own way, Rai and Gyawali transform emotion into art—bridging the space between absence and remembrance. In doing so, they do not merely share their grief; they invite us to find reflections of our own.

Kamal Dev Bhattarai, editor at The Annapurna Express, abruptly asked me, “How many girlfriends do you have?”

He was clearly joking, but the question hit me—it stirred something in my mind. A flurry of feelings began rising and falling like waves. To comfort myself, I thought: in the prime of my youth, many girls were drawn to me. Believe it or not, there’s no boast in this—just a matter of fact. Some may dismiss it as vanity, others as self-praise. But as they say, self-praise is no recommendation, and I’ve always avoided that path.

Back in the 1960s, I had the opportunity to tour several foreign countries—nearly all of India, Thailand, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Japan, North Korea, and more. We flew via Royal Nepal Airlines to Calcutta and New Delhi, and from there, drove along the Grand Trunk Road to Haryana and Punjab. Haryana stood out to me—an agrarian heartland that had turned barren land into one of the most productive regions through the Bhakra Nangal Dam. That project, championed by India’s first Prime Minister, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, is globally recognized as a transformative achievement. Similarly, I visited the Suez Canal in Africa, built under the leadership of President Gamal Abdel Nasser.

I must admit, I often get carried away with my thoughts and stray from the main subject—please excuse me for that. But to return to the central question: how many girlfriends did I have?

This could be viewed from two angles: one, through the lens of physical attraction; the other, through the lens of family background and wealth. But rarely can both be found in balance. Personally, I’ve always preferred quiet elegance, paired with refined behavior—a sentiment that comes from the heart.

Without exaggeration, I open up a little about my youthful days. I was often chased by my college classmates, though I considered myself somewhat shy and reserved. A line from an old Indian movie comes to mind:

“Kaliyan ki muskaan hain, bhanwara bada nadan”— which loosely means, “The flowers are smiling, but the bee remains oblivious.” The metaphor is rich and sensitive—highlighting the magnetic power of charm and music, leaving the rest for onlookers to interpret.

That said, I remain content and confident. I believe that love and affection should be enduring—not just passing fascinations. True love must go deeper than mere excitement; it must be rooted in values. Influenced by Oriental philosophy, this belief has stayed with me. I was born a Nepali and wish to remain one—forever and always.

During a visit to Gujarat, possibly to Damodar Kund, Narendra Modi, the current prime minister of India, had just launched an initiative to preserve cultural heritage. As part of our tour, one lady from the Ladies’ Wing of the hosting department welcomed our delegation. Our team leader, Mr. Pratap Singh Basnet—an Ivy League graduate from Cornell University—introduced me as the youngest member of our ten-person team, a bachelor and a dedicated officer. I respectfully greeted everyone with a Namaskar.

That lady seemed quite taken by me. After our visit, Mr. Basnet, who had faith in my commitment to the Rural Development Department, told me the woman had expressed interest in marrying me to her only daughter. But I declined. I couldn’t accept giving up my Nepali identity or citizenship—not under any circumstances.

From there, we flew to Thailand, then onward to Hong Kong (then still a British colony), although we had no official program there. Next, we headed to Manila, the capital of the Philippines. During our reception, we mingled with participants from both countries. One humorous Filipino participant advised me, “Whenever you meet a Filipina, just say ‘Mahal Kita.’” I did so, innocently, to a quiet young woman who remained close to me throughout the tour.

It wasn’t until later that I asked another Filipino friend what Mahal Kita meant. He laughed and said, “It means ‘I love you.’”

I was shocked.

So, Kamal ji—does this address your playful curiosity? It’s all connected to your unexpected yet amusing question. I’ll share more next time, perhaps from my future academic venture to the Midwest, at Grant University.