What once was: Recollections of loss and love
Presenting their debut exhibition, “What Once Was,” Katyani Rai and Sabita Gyawali explore the profound yet fragile nature of loss. Whether it’s the farewell of a loved one or the slow fading of love itself, their works invite viewers to contemplate the emotional weight of impermanence. Through distinct artistic styles and personal narratives, Rai and Gyawali craft a lasting testament to grief, attachment, and memory—transforming fleeting moments into something enduring.
How do you release the emotions you carry? Would you allow grief to take the shape of a melody? Through “What Once Was,” Rai and Gyawali remind us that art has the power to preserve, reshape, and reimagine loss. In their work, pain finds permanence, and what once felt lost is rediscovered in new and meaningful ways.
Katyani Rai: Etching Emotion into Art
How do you capture emotion in art? For Rai, the answer lies in the meticulous process of etching—a technique that transforms raw feeling into the tangible. Each line carved into the zinc plate is not just an action but a moment of release, an adrenaline-fueled act of creation where grief, love, and longing take on permanent form.
Stepping into “What Once Was,” one is immediately drawn into Rai’s world. Her works are deeply interconnected, seamlessly blending poetry and visual art. In pieces like “Maybe It’s Mercy, Maybe It’s Sin,” she explores the ache of holding on to someone who may never return. Paired with verses that speak to grief’s inevitable passage, her art becomes an intimate dialogue with the viewer:
“Maybe it’s mercy, maybe it’s sin
To keep holding on where we should have been
Maybe the earth just knows more than we do
That grief is a thing that must pass through.
The night takes what the night knows
What the hand can’t hold, the wind will sow.”
This poetic infusion enhances the emotional depth of her pieces, drawing audiences into a space of introspection. She explains, “The line is an inner conflict—perhaps it is ‘mercy’ to keep remembering, to cherish what was, but maybe it is also a ‘sin’, a form of self-punishment to dwell on something that no longer exists. Is the uncertainty kind to ourselves to hold on, or does it only deepen the wound?”
The quiet drift of things left behind evokes the universal experience of waiting, longing, and remembering. In contrast, works like” Forest of Unspoken Memories” and “Where Wild Ones Wait” convey a sense of hesitation—as if Rai is holding back her most intense emotions, while still allowing glimpses of her grief. This hesitation mirrors the common struggle of confronting one’s own feelings—a delicate balance between vulnerability and self-protection.
Her work “Untitled” reflects her belief that “life moves in a circle,” incorporating philosophical reflections on interconnectedness. Ravens, a recurring symbol in her art, appear as mournful figures of remembrance. In pieces such as “For I’m Grass, For I’m Stone, For I’m Dust That Longs for Home,” these birds serve as silent witnesses to loss, reinforcing themes of memory and impermanence. Titles like “New Moon 3:03 am,” “3:03,” and “Where the Blossoms Fell So Did We” suggest moments frozen in time—capturing a sacred stillness.
Meanwhile, in “Where Will You Go If the Stars Won’t Align,” “Towards the Field of Flowers,” “I Call It Mine,” Rai’s longing is palpable. Though lengthy, the title carries irony—an acceptance of fate woven with quiet hope. It subtly hints at the presence of the raven, reinforcing the ideas of solitude and lingering grief.
Her interconnected pieces, “Until I’m No Longer Flesh,” “But a Leaf, a Root, a Fading Shadow of Rain,” and “Tracing Silence,” are rich in symbolism, often incorporating lotus leaves. Rai describes the lotus as a flower that blooms in the most unexpected places—thriving in murky waters yet remaining untouched in its beauty. “Even in the dirtiest places, a diamond exists. And in my heart, I am still searching for it,” she reflects.
Through her work, Rai does not merely depict loss—she carves it, writes it, and transforms it into something permanent. Her piece Heaven Hangs Heavy conveys the experience of self-discovery, illustrating how Rai invites viewers to sit with their emotions, embrace fluctuations, and discover beauty in the most unexpected places.
Sabita Gyawali: The Softness of Memory
How gentle can a memory be? Are all memories light and delicate, or do some carry a quiet weight of longing? While grief is often seen as heavy, Gyawali approaches it differently—through softness, fragility, and the fleeting nature of recollection.
Gyawali captures the short-lived nature of memory through delicate paper and pastels. Her technique of pressing fabric into the medium gives her work a flowing, organic texture—adding a depth that ordinary paper cannot hold. The result is more than a surface; it becomes a metaphor for memory itself: fragile, passing, and deeply personal, slipping through our grasp even as we try to hold on.
Her piece, “Before the Winter Comes,” draws a poetic parallel between the inevitability of change and the migration of birds, reflecting the departures we experience in life. “Traces of Yesterday,” a series of five intricate works featuring pressed flowers, preserves fleeting beauty and offers a quiet meditation on nostalgia and the passage of time. In “Letters to the Unwritten,” Gyawali explores the weight of unspoken words. Handmade envelopes represent the letters never sent, the conversations never had.
“These empty envelopes hold the words I never wrote—and the ones that never reached me,” she shares, expressing the deep yearning and unresolved emotions that linger in silence.
Longing and absence are further explored in “Traces of You in the Wind,” which captures the quiet hope that someone who has gone might still find their way back. Similarly, “Window to Yesterday” consists of smaller works where windows and grill frames serve as gateways—opening up a vista to gaze outward. Much like her oil paintings, these blend sensory and visual memory through incense-burnt cutouts, where scent and sight merge to evoke both nostalgia and release.
Yet not all of Gyawali’s work centers on longing—some delve into identity and emotional entanglement. “Stirred by Your Touch” is meticulously crafted in pressed paper—a blend of fabric and incense-burned materials. This process becomes meditative, reflecting her signature approach of layering while still evoking softness and fragility. The work highlights the struggle of holding onto someone for so long that the boundaries between self and other begin to blur. It speaks to the push and pull of love, loss, and the search for self in the echoes of another’s presence.
Through her delicate yet vivid pieces, Gyawali reminds us that memory is not just something we recall—it is something we carry, something we feel, and sometimes, something we must learn to release.
A dialogue of emotion
Though Gyawali and Rai have distinct artistic styles, both navigate profound emotions through their work. Rai etches her grief into permanence, using the physical act of creation as catharsis, while Gyawali constructs memory through soft, layered textures that express its fleeting, ephemeral nature. One is marked by intensity, the other by delicacy—yet both seek to make sense of love and loss through their chosen mediums.
Rai’s art is raw and bold, allowing grief to take form as if carving sorrow into existence. In contrast, Gyawali’s work embodies the impermanence of memory, preserving delicate traces of what once was. Together, their works create a conversation—a balance between permanence and impermanence, between holding on and letting go.
“What Once Was” explores the deeply personal nature of sorrow, echoing works like Bharati Mukherjee’s “The Management of Grief,” where loss is experienced through both personal and societal lenses. Just as Mukherjee’s protagonist navigates grief in her own way, Rai and Gyawali transform emotion into art—bridging the space between absence and remembrance. In doing so, they do not merely share their grief; they invite us to find reflections of our own.
How many girlfriends do you have?
Kamal Dev Bhattarai, editor at The Annapurna Express, abruptly asked me, “How many girlfriends do you have?”
He was clearly joking, but the question hit me—it stirred something in my mind. A flurry of feelings began rising and falling like waves. To comfort myself, I thought: in the prime of my youth, many girls were drawn to me. Believe it or not, there’s no boast in this—just a matter of fact. Some may dismiss it as vanity, others as self-praise. But as they say, self-praise is no recommendation, and I’ve always avoided that path.
Back in the 1960s, I had the opportunity to tour several foreign countries—nearly all of India, Thailand, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Japan, North Korea, and more. We flew via Royal Nepal Airlines to Calcutta and New Delhi, and from there, drove along the Grand Trunk Road to Haryana and Punjab. Haryana stood out to me—an agrarian heartland that had turned barren land into one of the most productive regions through the Bhakra Nangal Dam. That project, championed by India’s first Prime Minister, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, is globally recognized as a transformative achievement. Similarly, I visited the Suez Canal in Africa, built under the leadership of President Gamal Abdel Nasser.
I must admit, I often get carried away with my thoughts and stray from the main subject—please excuse me for that. But to return to the central question: how many girlfriends did I have?
This could be viewed from two angles: one, through the lens of physical attraction; the other, through the lens of family background and wealth. But rarely can both be found in balance. Personally, I’ve always preferred quiet elegance, paired with refined behavior—a sentiment that comes from the heart.
Without exaggeration, I open up a little about my youthful days. I was often chased by my college classmates, though I considered myself somewhat shy and reserved. A line from an old Indian movie comes to mind:
“Kaliyan ki muskaan hain, bhanwara bada nadan”— which loosely means, “The flowers are smiling, but the bee remains oblivious.” The metaphor is rich and sensitive—highlighting the magnetic power of charm and music, leaving the rest for onlookers to interpret.
That said, I remain content and confident. I believe that love and affection should be enduring—not just passing fascinations. True love must go deeper than mere excitement; it must be rooted in values. Influenced by Oriental philosophy, this belief has stayed with me. I was born a Nepali and wish to remain one—forever and always.
During a visit to Gujarat, possibly to Damodar Kund, Narendra Modi, the current prime minister of India, had just launched an initiative to preserve cultural heritage. As part of our tour, one lady from the Ladies’ Wing of the hosting department welcomed our delegation. Our team leader, Mr. Pratap Singh Basnet—an Ivy League graduate from Cornell University—introduced me as the youngest member of our ten-person team, a bachelor and a dedicated officer. I respectfully greeted everyone with a Namaskar.
That lady seemed quite taken by me. After our visit, Mr. Basnet, who had faith in my commitment to the Rural Development Department, told me the woman had expressed interest in marrying me to her only daughter. But I declined. I couldn’t accept giving up my Nepali identity or citizenship—not under any circumstances.
From there, we flew to Thailand, then onward to Hong Kong (then still a British colony), although we had no official program there. Next, we headed to Manila, the capital of the Philippines. During our reception, we mingled with participants from both countries. One humorous Filipino participant advised me, “Whenever you meet a Filipina, just say ‘Mahal Kita.’” I did so, innocently, to a quiet young woman who remained close to me throughout the tour.
It wasn’t until later that I asked another Filipino friend what Mahal Kita meant. He laughed and said, “It means ‘I love you.’”
I was shocked.
So, Kamal ji—does this address your playful curiosity? It’s all connected to your unexpected yet amusing question. I’ll share more next time, perhaps from my future academic venture to the Midwest, at Grant University.
Rama Navami in Mithila
Mithila is a land of legends, vibrant culture, and an unbroken cycle of fairs and festivals that weave through the year like a colorful tapestry. These celebrations are not mere events but a way of life—expressing joy, sorrow, hope, and resilience. They mark the changing seasons, infusing meaning into everyday existence while strengthening the bonds of community.
Among these festivals, Rama Navami stands out, heralding the arrival of spring and celebrating the birth of Lord Rama. Observed on the ninth day of the bright lunar fortnight (Shukla Paksha) in the month of Chaitra (April), it is marked by grand fairs, devotional songs, and fervent worship.
According to ancient lore, King Dashrath of Ayodhya—a prosperous and benevolent ruler—was childless despite having three devoted queens. Distressed, he performed a sacred yagna (fire ritual) upon Lord Vishnu’s advice. Pleased by his devotion, the gods bestowed upon him a bowl of kheer (rice pudding). Another version narrates that the fire god Agni himself emerged from the yagna and presented the divine dessert.
Dashrath distributed the kheer among his queens: Kaushalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra. In time, Kaushalya gave birth to Rama, Kaikeyi to Bharat, and Sumitra to the twins Lakshman and Shatrughan. Thus, Rama, the divine prince and embodiment of virtue, was born.
On Rama Navami, devotees fast, chant Rama’s name, and recite sacred texts like Tulsidas’s Ramcharitmanas in the Tarai-Madhes region and Bhanubhakta’s Ramayan in Nepal’s hills and Kathmandu Valley. Temples dedicated to Rama resonate with hymns, and the faithful immerse themselves in prayer, seeking blessings and solace.
The life of Rama has been immortalized in countless versions across languages and cultures. Valmiki’s Ramayan, the original Sanskrit epic, chronicles his journey through seven kandas (episodes), from his childhood (Bal Kand) to his final years (Uttar Kand).
Inspired by Valmiki, poets like Bhanubhakta (Nepali), Tulsidas (Hindi), and Chanda Jha (Maithili) retold the epic in their own tongues, each adding unique literary brilliance. Beyond South Asia, Rama’s story thrives—Thailand’s Ramakien, Indonesia’s Kakawin Ramayana, and other adaptations testify to his enduring legacy.
Rama is revered not just as a god but as the perfect human—an obedient son, a devoted husband, and a just ruler. His birth anniversary, Rama Navami, transcends borders, uniting devotees in Nepal, India, and beyond.
It is said that hearing Rama’s tale purifies the soul, and chanting his name alleviates suffering. Thus, this festival is not merely a ritual but a reaffirmation of faith, virtue, and the timeless wisdom of the Ramayan.
People’s understanding of autism
World Autism Awareness Day, observed on April 2nd, aims to promote understanding and acceptance of individuals with autism spectrum disorder (ASD). This day serves as an opportunity to raise awareness about autism. For many, autism is still a relatively misunderstood condition, with varying levels of awareness across generations. ApEx spoke to three people to find out how aware they are about this condition.
Amos Bhomjan, 22
Autistic people are differently abled but they also have extraordinary capabilities. I came to know about autism when I was really young but I don’t exactly remember how and when. I think that the current generation is aware about autism but the older generation didn’t understand it much and thus there were many myths about it. I once attended a seminar where a pediatrician was talking about autism with a group of parents. I think the medical fraternity is trying hard to make people understand what it is and how to deal with it and that’s a good start.
Aayushma Bhattarai, 24
I heard about autism eight years ago, let’s say when I was 16-17 years old. But I started understanding it only a few years back. I don’t think people in Nepal really know what autism is. The younger generation who are educated and active on social media might know about it but the vast majority is still fairly unaware. I think people widely use social media these days so the best way to create awareness would be to use different online platforms. However there’s a lot of miscommunication and misunderstanding in social media as well and that should be monitored wisely.
Rakesh Prajapati, 33
I was about 21 years old when I came to know about autism and I don’t think normally people know what autism is in Nepal. I have to admit that I came to understand it very late in life. And I must confess that till this date I’m not fully aware of what it is actually like. I think the school curriculum should include autism and awareness campaigns must be conducted among the senior or the middle aged citizens to make more people aware about it. This can help empower autistic people in the long run.
