The once warm and inviting rendezvous of Kathmandu are becoming casualties of indifferent progress.
Gahana Pokhari (Jewel Pond) is a historic pond located in Tangal, Hadigaun, an ancient Newari settlement within Kathmandu. It was built sometime during the Malla dynasty period, between the 14th and 17th centuries, when the valley flourished with exquisite Newari artistry, architecture, and craftsmanship. According to the local Hindu legend, the goddess Tudaldevi once lost her jewel in the pond and was aided by her sisters, Mahalaxmi from nearby Naxal and Bhairavi from faraway Nuwakot district, in recovering it. This tale is reenacted in the so-called Chaitra Shukla Ashtami (a Hindu lunar calendar date), i.e., on the eighth day of the waxing moon of Spring in the Gahana Khojne Jatra (Jewel Searching Festival). This is a festival that commemorates this legend and honors the deity.
During the festival, devotees plunge into the water, circling it with a portable shrine housing Tuladevi’s idol, while priests theatrically proclaim that the lost jewels have been found—only for them to be “lost” again, ensuring the ritual’s endless repetition. The procession parades the idol on wooden palanquins draped with umbrellas, marked also by the sacrifice of a he-buffalo for the gods. Such pageantry of zealous worshippers appeasing the gods seems futile, yielding no warmth, coziness, or goodness. The gods are all-too fallible and human-like, yet they cast a strong influence on their followers. The label of "culture protection" and uncritical silence guard most traditions in Nepal fostering hardened insularity. Sociologists simply describe these cultural affairs, skipping any normative remarks. Few evaluate, let alone contest, established worldviews. Positing alternatives is often, in a knee-jerk reaction tagged with libels of malevolent proseletyzation. Fear of hurting people's sentiments or inviting retaliatory polemics silences good thinkers. I love my Nepalese brethrens and sisters, but many of their entanglement in polytheism seems not to be grounded in Truth or goodness.
Despite the mythos surrounding Gahana Pokhari, the pond itself has long been a beautiful and cherished retreat from Kathmandu’s hustle and bustle. But today was different. For years, I have frequented Gahana Pokhari, watching swifts skim the pond, sparrows and pigeons peck at scattered food scraps along the perimeter lined with lush Bermuda grass, and adoring the carps and catfishes glide beneath the rippling waters. Under the shade of a tree, I would read for an hour or two, enveloped in the pond's tranquil ambiance. For over a decade, it was a place of solace for both myself and countless others—young and old. But recently, during the preceding few visits, I have been struggling to settle here. And today, I could not bear myself to stay longer than a few minutes.
The tea stalls and samosa shops that once lined the periphery near the police station have vanished without a trace. The Madhesi tea seller, who always greeted me with a reassuring nod and a quiet smile, is nowhere to be seen. Gone too are the mother and daughters from the adjacent tea shop, who used to serve milk tea leaning over the pond’s outer guardrails, their warmth and kindness gone away along with them.
The grass around the pond has mostly withered, gradually leaving the perimeter bare and dusty. Good spots to sit without being soiled are now scarce. The fountain at the pond’s center has been removed, and no longer does its mist spray the air. The pond, now lifeless, is stripped of any fish. The park’s visitors, now mostly transiently roaming couples, seem indifferent to everything beyond their own secluded worlds. They come and go quickly, darting off the concrete benches. The roads near the pond are lined with ride-service bikes, their drivers scanning for the next fare, phones ringing sharply with requests. The shaded iron bench near the police station next to the pond has been hijacked by real estate agents, discussing loudly, trying to fix deals on cellphones. They spit phlegm onto the ground, rub and chew tobacco, donning neatly pressed formal dress. Sitting next to them with a book was once a mistake, for disturbance abounds.
The indigenous dogs are gone too. Khaire (brownie), Kale (blackie), and Sete (whitey), once the unspoken guardians of Gahana Pokhari, have mysteriously vanished. Kale and Sete would bark at each other in ritualistic fashion but never fought. Sete, often leaping into the park to bark at Kale, was beloved to the tea sellers and dwelled close by them. I suspect they were euthanized by the municipality authorities, the same ones who likely dismantled the tea stalls. Perhaps their dogness was a menace to them, serving least in the municipality's agendas. Or perhaps they migrated to somewhere better. But their traces are nowhere to be found, even in the wider vicinities.
The mayor has set up what he calls a "weekly cultural fair" in Hadigaun, where the pond is a key landmark. It began a year ago and still continues every Saturday. I have visited the fair three times recently. But it feels like nothing more than a commercialized food market, devoid of any meaningful cultural showcase or homage to Hadigaun’s legacy. The Hakku Patasi worn by some stall owners feels like an empty gesture. Children drawing and enjoying their recess in the courtyard and pottery-making once seen in earlier fairs are now absent. Youth from recesses of Kathmandu flock here on Saturday evenings, yet there is little inquiry about Hadigaun’s Newa heritage, no curiosity about the recipes behind the delicacies they consume so hastily. The food sellers are occupied with filling the orders and are least bothered about anything else. Young swarm in groups, feast, and dissipate.
The frigid decay is palpable. Despite the bright sun and the balmy spring air, there is a dark, chilling ether lingering, especially when you’re alone, trying to savor a book. The soul is unsettled by the absence of warmth, and solitude weighs heavier than before. Greed, like ominous vultures, looms over Kathmandu. The bookshops—another of my sanctuaries—feel different too. I have known the sellers and their children, now handling their parents' business for over 15 years. Pushy sales slowly dethrone engaging conversations once warm and gregarious. Exorbitant price tags stare at you menacingly, and hollow transactions forbiddingly await.
The visible erosion of Gahana Pokhari and the old bookshops turning frosty may be indicators of broader spiritual decline. On the wider arena, political polarization grows more extreme; postmodernism and relativism dominate the academic halls. Ghosts of Marx and Freud still speak through modern intellectuals, whose diagnoses get some things right but whose prescriptions are utter pessimism. Neoliberals, Keynesians, and socialists struggle to find the perfect economics. The soul cannot help but register the tangible declines. Human affairs are becoming more transactional, more consumed by profit-making ulterior motives. Love feels absent, and in its place are brusque dialogues exchanged for cold convenience or gain. It seems when people who carry Love dwindle, the habitat is left barren. If love has grown scarce, perhaps it is a call—not to withdraw, but to bring light where the shadows deepen (Matthew 5:13-16). While the saints and sages think through the hard problems and draw from God, let us common mortals remember to at least be there for our neighbors and loved ones. Visit them when you can, and make those intermittent check-in calls and extend your aiding hands to those in your purview. If places are growing cold, the warmth of good human souls can still travel to others, rekindling love and hope. I need to go back to the Scriptures now, to the warmth that never dims.