Kathmandu is Screaming Sliently

There is a thought that keeps returning to me whenever I walk through the Kathmandu Valley. This city is not built only with bricks and roads, but with thoughts. It is a manifestation of the collective consciousness of the people who live in it.

Kathmandu did not become Kathmandu by accident. It carries centuries of shared memory and many layers of collective consciousness. Every narrow alley, every temple tucked into a street corner, and every festival we take pride in are the results of what our ancestors believed in and the values they shared. Tradition and culture did not merely decorate this city; they gave it life.

Then came the years of building a “modern” Nepal. The priorities shifted toward physical infrastructure. I vividly remember our first mayor promising to turn Kathmandu into Singapore. What a tragedy. In that moment, the collective consciousness of the city pushed aesthetics and identity to the back burner and focused instead on roads and high-rise buildings, often at the cost of originality. Wide roads and modern buildings are not necessarily bad, but they slowly overshadowed the symbols of what Kathmandu once stood for.

A few days ago, I went for a morning run to Pashupati. On the way back, I took the Bagmati Corridor, on the right lane. I saw the river reduced to nearly one-third of its size, squeezed between roads on both sides. Sewage flowed openly into this so-called shrine river. There were slum houses along the banks, potholes all over the road, some sections newly paved, others crumbling, barking dogs everywhere, and a general sense of neglect that was hard to ignore.

A shrine covered in marigolds stands next to a pile of garbage. A man bows in devotion and then throws plastic onto the road without a second thought. This contradiction is not hypocrisy; it is honesty. It shows exactly where our collective consciousness stands—aware, but not fully awakened.

The Bagmati River is believed to open the way to heaven. The Bishnumati River, which once nourished the fertile plains of the Kathmandu Valley, has been damaged in the name of “development.” These rivers are symbols of the Newar civilisation, the civilisation that gave Nepal much of its identity.

Kathmandu does not pretend to be perfect. Neither do we. Kathmandu looks ugly because, in many ways, we are ugly. Kathmandu is unfinished because we are unfinished. The city waits for better times, better systems, better versions of itself. There is a hope that Kathmandu Valley is not broken, because we are not broken.

And perhaps, if we listen carefully, it is asking us a simple question: What kind of city do you want to become—starting with yourself?

Happy Friday