Kintsugi
Kintsugi
Nepal’s constant narrative of loss is always accompanied by undying resilience
Located in the heart of the city, the Kathmandu Durbar Square used to be one of the liveliest places I had ever visited. Hundreds of people would sit on the bases of the temples in the evenings chatting over a cup of black tea and a snack. Around them, countless street vendors would sell anything from loose cigarettes to a variety of vegetables. Bells would ring from the temples and the air would be filled with a strong smell of burning essence.
At the end of April, 2015 a 7.9 magnitude earthquake shook Nepal. I revisited Kathmandu only two weeks after the earthquake. Standing in the middle of the square, the place looked nothing like it used to less than a year ago. Small groups of people were scattered here and there and the temples and royal palace completely destroyed. I went there to photograph not the devastation but the remaining bits of hope.
Disappointed, I leaned on the wall of a temple to rest. Right before I put my camera back in my backpack, the famous “jhanda baaje (lit. translation: flag grandfather; an urban legend) dressed in traditional attire saluted me, hoisting the Nepali flag high up in the air. Two elderly women were still selling corn to feed the pigeons. I took a deep breath. Kathmandu was slowly coming back to life.
A year after the earthquake, the Durbar Square continues being what it used to be before it all happened. The places where the old temples used to stand are now an extra space for the local vendors. People still occupy the remaining temples in the evenings. Nepal’s constant narrative of loss is always accompanied by undying resilience.
Featured artist: Marija Grujovska
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