Written by Sarita Ramamoorthy
Leaving Mumbai in the middle of a personal crisis and stepping foot into a country I had never been to before, bag and baggage, was one of the bravest things I ever did. I moved to Kathmandu as a young woman, not yet 30 and full of anxiety. I thought I would be here for a few months or maybe a year until I successfully ride out the personal crisis and finish my projects.
That was more than 13 years ago.
My first night in the city was spent in the house of a gracious host in the historic Patan area. The house had two dogs — they were not ferocious, but I was nonetheless terrified of them. My host wondered how I would survive in a city full of stray dogs, most of whom are loved and adored by the residents.
But Kathmandu changed me. It taught me, first, to love dogs, beginning with Blackie, the survivor of a litter of three that I discovered one day in my courtyard. I fell for her so hard that I even ended up spending a whole month’s paycheck on getting her spayed and operated for a tumour. I even stopped baulking at the thought of encountering dogs during my solo hikes and treks. Now, I’m always on the lookout for dogs to pet on my hike.
Kathmandu also taught me how to live, and thrive, by myself. One of the first things that I had to come to terms with was the near absence of secure apartment buildings, so ubiquitous in Mumbai. Everyone made fun of me. “Look at this big-city girl, scared of the small houses,” they said. On my first day here, an estate agent showed me an independent house in this swanky new-ish residential area. When he told me that no one else lived in the house and that I could rent the entire first floor, I looked at him, horrified at the thought. He couldn’t see what the big deal was.
The house I eventually picked was a cosy one-room studio in Patan, part of the heritage area that surrounds Patan Durbar, a world-renowned UNESCO World Heritage Site. The houses lined with shop fronts reminded me of the hustle and bustle of Mumbai, which I found comforting. I still live in Patan, albeit in a different house, with a courtyard that boasts of two large pomelo trees and a small well; this is indescribable luxury for a Mumbaikar.
Over the years, Kathmandu Valley, especially Patan, has allowed me to catch my breath and slow down. It taught me to “touch the grass and smell the flowers”, especially during the winters from 2012 to 2016 when for 13 hours a day, split over two shifts, we all lived without electricity. Unlike unscheduled random power cuts in Mumbai, Nepal Electricity Authority would print a schedule for different zones and stick to the timings. I took to going for walks to Patan Durbar or parking myself in the square and reading a book. Nearly every restaurant or café has some outdoor garden space.
Mumbai may have a reputation for being the “safest” city for women in India, I feel safer in Kathmandu. I frequently go out alone to get a drink or listen to live music without worrying about being bothered. I even made friends in such places, people who all just show up at the same place every week, with whom I’ve connected without having to exchange numbers or having my privacy invaded in any way.
During the long power cuts, my favourite place to go to was Bhat-Bhateni, Nepal’s leading department store. In the beginning, when I did not really know what to do in a house without electricity or internet, I often found comfort in its brightly-lit aisles. In the ongoing Gen-Z movement, 12 Bhat-Bhateni stores are reported to have been gutted and nine looted. I haven’t yet ventured out to the one located close to me, but I hear it is still standing. The protests in Patan were fairly calm and caused almost no damage. This came to me as no surprise for this is a community that takes immense pride in its history and heritage.
A lot has changed in my time here, but much remains the same. The last order at most restaurants is still between 8:30 pm and 9:30 pm. However, I am no longer the only POC in a café like I sometimes used to be in 2012. My fairly quiet residential neighbourhood is now one of the most popular hangouts in the city, especially among the young. As an English language trainer, I interact with many young Gen-Z Nepalis; I know that their dreams and hopes will survive the current political turmoil.
In the aftermath of the 2015 earthquake, I watched communities reconstruct their heritage with patience. During the 2015-16 blockade, like many others, I was hanging for dear life by the doors of the microvans, going from Pulchowk to Ratnapark, momentarily transported to the crowded Mumbai trains. I lived here through the Covid-19 pandemic in 2020-2022, when the virus got me not once, but twice.
Now in my 40s, embracing all my greys, I am still here. As I witness the fires across the city I am hopelessly in love with, I hold on to the belief that the country and its people will persevere and rebuild, like they have done so many times before.
Ramamoorthy is an editorial consultant and artist based in Kathmandu
