My Morning, Their Midnight

Time is relative. I am not bragging about Einstein's Theory of Relativity. This is about several time zones within Kathmandu city. Five o’clock is not universally “early morning.” This morning, it was a usual morning for me. But the empty roads suggested that for many others, it was still midnight.

Near the temples, devotees were already walking back from their prayers. Their day had clearly begun long before mine. I imagine they must be thinking, "Ah, the late risers are out."

And the vegetable vendors? For them, 5 a.m. is practically late morning. Shops open, scales ready, transactions underway. Their workday was already in full swing while it was still dark.

Then comes Thamel, lights still glowing, people spilling out of pubs, laughing, smoking. For them, the night was young. It appears Nepal’s little Las Vegas, blinking through a hangover.

“Early” and “late” are not absolute words. They are relative to what we make with our own lifestyles. Time is less a clock and more about how it is perceived.

Kathmandu at five is a secret version of the city. Running through it feels like knowing a part of the mystery that elevates curiosity.  I am among the few who see this beauty before the sun edits it out.

Today I took my usual route: home to the Bagmati Corridor. Yes, there is a smell. A confident smell. But the nose, like the human spirit, adapts. The UN Park wall was lit up and oddly majestic, which fades with the sunlight.

Then along Dhobi Khola, where I always feel a small sadness seeing rivers squeezed tightly by roads on both sides. And I crossed Singh Durbar, running beside its towering walls, a physical reminder of the distance between rulers and the ruled. Even my footsteps felt monitored.

Past Putalisadak, the academic district was waking. Students marched toward colleges, aiming towards better futures. Meanwhile, across the street, overseas education agents' billboards shined, promising better education aboard. The road was empty in a way you only see during protests or curfews.

And then through Thamel, I entered the inner city, temple bells rang, and incense thickened the air. Durbar Square stood calm and dignified, a reminder that Kathmandu has seen centuries of mornings like this. Next to it, vegetable shops were fully armed for the day, guarded by a malpuwa shop, full of halwa, and swari. People were queuing for that oily food early morning. I was once one of them. Not anymore.

The city was vivid and living many time zones at once. Five in the morning is not early. It is not too late. It is simply where thousands of life style overlaps, shops, prayers, parties, education and one runner pretending to understand time while trying not to trip on uneven pavement.

And that is Kathmandu: a city that refuses to agree on what time it is.