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Kanchan Amatya has become the first Nepali to win the prestigious “Princess Diana Award”. Amatya was awarded for her work in boosting women’s financial standing, which she did in affiliation with the United Nations.

After the fatal car accident of Princess Diana in 1997, the British royal family had started this prestigious award, to be given on Princess Diana’s birthday to the ones contributing to the welfare of the society. Every year, her two sons, Prince William and Prince Harry, hand it out in the house where their mother spent her childhood.

Amatya, a graduate of St. Mary’s School in Kathmandu, is currently in the United States, where she is a student and also working for
United Nations Youth and Women Rights. She has also gotten several other awards. Moreover, the US House of Representatives has appointed her to advocate for the cause of Nepali youth and
women. 

On an overcast morning on June 29, I’m out on my balcony with John Mayer’s “Waiting for the world to change” blasting on my speaker when I suddenly feel drop­lets of water against my shirt. Ten minutes later, there’s a downpour. “What will happen to the parade now?” I ask myself.It was the day of the first official Queer/MOGAI Pride Parade taking place in the international Gay Pride Month of June.

Luckily, the rain stopped, so I set off for Maitighar mandala, stop­ping at a local tea shop for a cuppa before I headed to the parade. As I sipped my tea, I overheard an old man. “Look at the hijras! You know they can kill anyone easily,” he said. “They have stones in their pockets at all times,” he added as he exited the shop.

After I paid for my tea, I approached the old man, Ram Saran Timilsina, and asked him if he’d be willing to talk about the parade. Slightly hesitant, yet with a great deal of assertiveness, he said, “They are humans, just like us. They have to be given their rights.”

This irony, perhaps, helps explain where we are in terms of LGBTQ+ inclusion. I can’t blame Timilsina’s generation but the irony does illus­trate the level of acceptance in our society—homophobic but shielded by a veneer of political correctness.

The parade was a colorful affair—hues of red, yellow, orange, green, purple, blue everywhere. There were rainbow flags and rainbow umbrellas. Rainbow ribbons and rainbow fans. Rainbow tees and cheeks. It was a carnival.

I saw people singing and dancing. The crowd was diverse in terms of age, ethnicity, sexuality, and so on. Everyone was unapologetically themselves. And happy. I talked to some participants who collectively made the parade the visual specta­cle that it was.

Bijaya, 18, who identifies as a bisexual, believes events like these are integral to promote diversity and inclusiveness. “I’m excited to find out that there are many more people like me out there. And that makes me feel empowered,” she said.

Dipesh, 18, identifies as gen­der-fluid and chooses pronouns like ‘they’, ‘them’ and ‘their’ to refer to ‘themselves’. Dipesh said ‘they’ did not expect so many people to attend the parade. “We need to recognize that there are more terms than just L-G- B-T. It’s going to be huge, this is just the start,” said Dipesh.

Anish Rana, 20, identifies as gay and believes Nepal is so much safer for the LGBTQ+ community than many other countries. “Perceptions will change with time,” he said enthusiastically.

Not everything is hunky dory for the community members though. Obviously their lives aren’t always this happy and exciting. What are the stories that make events like these so important for the commu­nity? What do they go through when they go back to their normal lives? To gain some insight, I sat down with two teenagers for a chat.

Kurasa is a 17-year-old girl who identifies as bisexual. She was nine when she first suspected she might be different to what the society con­siders ‘normal’. “My sister and I were talking about celebrity crushes and I named a mix of actresses and actors”. Her sister then confronted her. “She said it doesn’t work like that as we were a ‘normal’ family. What is ‘normal’ anyways?” Kurasa asks me as she continues with her story.

“I was constantly confronted with the idea that my natural preference is wrong,” she says. And for that reason, she thinks she might nev­er be able to accept herself fully. Kurasa says she tried very hard to convince herself that she doesn’t like girls. “And so I forced myself into homophobic behavior in the hope that it would turn me straight”. After she took her District Level Exams at the end of Grade 8, she started surfing the net. And that is when she found out that there might be a definition for the type of person she was. “But by then, a lot of emotional damage had already been wrought,” says Kurasa.

Kurasa even inflicted self-harm in an attempt to cope with her reality. “I was in Grade 5 when I started cutting myself”. The first time was when her sister yelled a homopho­bic slur at her (‘Chhakka’). “For her, it was an ordinary word, but she didn’t know the self-hatred it plant­ed in my mind. I can’t count the number of times I’ve cut myself since then”.

When I ask her if and when she plans to tell her parents, she says “maybe never”.

Prajwal is an 18-year-old high school student who identifies as a gay man. “From a very young age, I knew I was different. Boys would go out to play sports whereas I enjoyed playing with my girl friends. I real­ized my interests were markedly different to those of other boys in my class.” When Prajwal was in Grade 4, he faced his first instance of homophobia. “They called me using female names and shouted homophobic slurs at me. That really hurt”, he says. Then he adopted a homophobic attitude himself in an attempt to turn straight and find friends. “As much as I hate to say it, it worked and people stopped teasing me.”

Then in Grade 9, Prajwal found romance for the first time on Insta­gram. “I didn’t know what it was, I couldn’t define it. I just felt an emo­tional connection with this guy and it felt good,” he says. Prajwal was 16 when he discovered a community of people like him. “It helped me accept myself. It didn’t feel wrong anymore,” he adds. “After I started accepting myself, I came out to my sister. She said to my face that she really hoped it was a lie and that it was a big joke,” he adds. “Now she is very supportive and has been very accepting.”

I ask him to tell me a pleasant experience he’s had. “It was when I had a real life boyfriend and when we kissed for the first time,” he recounts. “I can’t explain in words what that meant to me, it felt pure and true”. “And when I came out to my friends for the first time, I was bracing myself for physical abuse,” he adds. Lucky for him, there was none.

What about telling his parents? “I have heard what my parents say about people like me, so I know I’ll get kicked out if I come out to them”. He believes it is in his interest to open up only after becoming finan­cially independent. “Another 10, 15 years. Who knows?” he shrugs.

Stories like these are what make Pride Parades so important. In a conservative society, such events make people like Kurasa and Pra­jwal feel alive and, well, human. With a big smile in their faces and a newfound excitement for the future, both Kurasa and Prajwal marched with flag poles as we drew our con­versation to a close

Those of us who came of age in the 1990s and 2000s will never forget the unmitigated thrill of popping Orange Balls, those round orange sweets in transparent wrappers with yellow letters. The memories still make us drool. Sujal Foods has now stopped making these delicious delights, spelling an end of an era when the sweet Orange Balls and their close cousins sweet-and-sour Rimjhim Balls (also known as Black Balls) were the undoubted kings of the Nepali sweet market. Cheap too, as four could be had for a rupee. (APEX recently hit the streets in search of these candies but in vain.) There is a Facebook group, with more than 10,000 followers, dedicated to these two candies. People still post on Facebook and Reddit querying about their origin, recipe, and writing their personal stories. We bring to you some old fans of these candies and their incredible memories.

Elena Gurung, Video creator, 19
I and my cousins were very naughty when we were young. Just to make us sit down for a while, my grandmother used to ask us to draw. If the drawing was nice, she would give us 25 paisa each. It was a big deal for us then because we could get one Orange Ball for that money. When our grandma gave us money, all of 75 paisa, the three of us cousins would then run to the store. One of us would get a Black Ball and the other two would get an Orange Ball each. We would divide the spicy Black Ball into three pieces, eat it, and only then eat Orange Balls.

Sabin Karki, Dancer, 23
I still remember getting four Orange Balls for one rupee when I was little. One of my friends had brought like a bunch of Orange Balls to distribute in school on his birthday. I was amazed! He let everyone in the class take as many as we wanted. That day was amazing and remains a fond memory.

Saurav Chaudhary, Actor, 27
Four-for-One: Perhaps the best deal I could have gotten at “Maila uncle ko pasal” for those candies. I vividly remember my friends showing off their colored orange tongues. The funniest part was making ‘colas’ and orange juice out of those candies, which is the best juice I have ever had. I still wish we could get the same candies with same taste and the same type of friends with the same innocence.

Raj Shah, Sarwanam Theater Director, 32
An entire packet of Rimjhim Balls or Orange Balls used to cost Rs 14. We, as children, could not afford it. One candy used to cost Rs 0.25 but for Rs 14, we could get more in quantity. So, my friends and I used to form a group of 5-6 people and each of us would contribute Rs 3 for a packet of that candy. I think it was the cheapest and most famous candy of our generation. We used to take off its wrappers and put the candies in our pockets. Then we would secretly eat it during class hours.

Swoopna Suman, Singer, 23
I was in my hostel back then. One night, I saw a friend of mine take out some candies from his black box. He handed me almost half a packet of Lacto, Orange Balls and Black Balls. I ate them all, at once. Right before I fell asleep, I felt a light sting on my left cheek. The next morning, my left cheek was totally numb. Next thing I realized my left eyelid wouldn’t blink. I don’t know if it were those candies or my body, but I got half of my face paralyzed for the next 3 months.

Kristie Rai Potter, 28
Whoever made Orange Balls is a star. I think at least 60 percent of my childhood body was made out of Orange Balls, haha.

Pratik Dhakal, 26
I used to buy 30 Orange Balls at once and dissolve them in water to make orange juice. And believe me, it tasted great, just like orange juice. That was me when I was just five! Sweet memories, indeed.

Neeru Tharu, 18
Before Orange Balls were 25 paisa a pop and I now hear they are Re 1 per piece. Now this candy is difficult to find. Maybe it is still available at Bhatbhateni. [Ed: No it is not]

Passing by the idyllic Nag­pokhari pond amidst Naxal’s hustle and bustle, you notice a bunch of boxing athletes and enthusiasts work­ing out diligently every dawn and dusk. They are members of Naxal Boxing Club, whose training reminds you of scenes from ‘Rocky’ and ‘Million Dol­lar Baby’ that made some of us want to throw a punch or two. One day, I carefully observed them going through their routines, and it capti­vated me. They were contin­uously completing rounds which would not be easy for an average person, even without the sweltering heat. Soon they shifted gears and did their jumps between the cones lined up around them. Someone who looked like their coach then blew his whistle to signal a break.

Starting young

I approached coach Raj Krishna Maharjan to ask him about the athletes’ workout. He went into detail about how the routine consisted of a mix of intensive boxing exercises and a 25-minute jog around the pond. By then, the ath­letes had started their run. Maharjan firmly told a kid, who did not even look 10, to quicken his pace. I asked him if the child was old enough to be there.

“These kids are preparing for future tournaments. This is how most people start and we help them throughout,” said Maharjan, who also started young at the club. He mentioned how the club was known as Naxal Yuwa Man­dal and Boxing Club since its inception in the mid-70s by late Garud Dhwaj Shahi, in what was one of only four pri­vate boxing clubs at the time. A structural change led to it being registered as Naxal Box­ing Club around six years ago.

Maharjan, 42, says he is giv­ing back to the club, in what is his seventh year as a coach. He recalled the days he competed in tournaments and won med­als. He proudly mentioned that some of the current mem­bers have already started pre­paring for junior champion­ships. He pointed to Sushma Tamang, a 17-year-old athlete who is waiting for her 12th grade results and has been with the club for the past three years. When I asked Tamang how she found out about the club, she told me she lived nearby and used to see peo­ple practicing. Her interest shot up when her elder sis­ter went abroad through the club and won medals. Tamang exuded confidence and said she was looking forward to the upcoming local youth competitions.

While athletes like Tamang are working towards a career in boxing, there is no shortage of people who have joined the club just to have some fun and stay fit. Nabin Dhakal, a 19-year-old engineering stu­dent is one such example. He chose it over modern gyms and training centers because of its open space and afford­able fees. “I even tried out the club at Dashrath Rangas­ala. But because of the recon­struction going on there, the sessions were irregular. Here, I do not have to worry about that,” he said.

Beyond the physical

While the trainees learn much about boxing, I couldn’t help but notice the bond they had forged with each other and with the coaches. Pres­ident Navin Tandukar, who also coaches the morning ses­sions, says the club instills a sense of responsibility in its members. “They will all be contributing to society in one way or another. Some have already gone on to represent our nation abroad, while oth­ers are serving the country by joining its security services,” said Tandukar.

Like Maharjan, Tandukar also used to be a member of the club and represented it in various tournaments. Now they have both decided to dedicate themselves to the club. Sushma Tamang aspires to do the same at some point in the future. “The club has taught me how to be fearless and believe in myself. I want to contribute to it later, how­ever I can,” she stressed.

The club is run mostly on donations and contributions. Both Tandukar and Maharjan said how they, along with a few other senior members, have been paying for the club’s expenses from their own pockets. “We understand that everyone interested may not be able to afford it. While we ask people who can afford the Rs 1,000 membership fee to pay up, we also try to accom­modate those who aren’t as well off,” said Maharjan.

The coaches have been for­going their salaries, and with the benefactors, have instead been providing gloves and bandages to the athletes who cannot afford them.

A culture of its own

The Naxal Boxing Club has withstood the waves of modernization and built an illustrious legacy, becoming an inseparable part of Nag­pokhari and of Naxal at large. Even without extravagant box­ing equipment or carefully regimented diet plans, its ath­letes are able to give stiff com­petition to those with such privileges. The secret seems to be the collective dedication of the athletes, coaches and well-wishers who have kept the boxing culture alive and thriving.

Despite the financial pressure, with determined coaches like Maharjan and Tandukar and promising ath­letes like Sushma Tamang, the club seems poised to remain viable and to continue fill­ing the Nagpokhari air with the noise of staccato thuds of punches for a long time to come O