I can’t quite recall how I ended up teaching primary school students, but it was my first proper job. After completing my intermediate studies in arts from Ratna Rajya Campus in the early 1990s, I was struggling to make ends meet in Kathmandu. My parents had stopped sending me their modest monthly allowance, which barely covered my rent and basic survival.
I must have seen an ad somewhere, which led me to the back alleys of Babarmahal, where an Indian couple had set up a primary school on the ground floor of a three-story building. Strangely enough, as I write this, I’m sitting in a quiet office near the confluence of the Bagmati and Dhobi Khola rivers–close to where it all began.
They hired me to teach English. The principal and his wife were impressed by my English grades. But the stint didn’t last long, and I later heard the school shut down soon after I left.
A few years later, I found myself commuting from my rented room in Thapagaun to Lamatar in Lalitpur district–changing two buses to get there. My friend Kamal Paudel had to leave town for personal reasons, and I was his stand-in at the school. Back then, I was deeply into Bollywood films and sported shoulder-length hair. The headmaster appreciated my teaching, but he asked me to cut my hair. As a young man with a flair for fashion and a fierce sense of freedom, I chose to walk away from my second teaching job.
As my journalism career progressed and later began to stall, I found myself circling back to teaching. Following covid pandemic, freelance journalism opportunities began to dry up. After my stint at a fact-checking organization, I started training journalists on verification and tackling mis- and disinformation. But those gigs were few and far between.
I had failed to revive my freelance career. In my golden years as a freelance journalist, I always had three stories on the go: one already edited and awaiting publication, another in the reporting stage with an approved pitch, and a third, a solid idea ready to be pitched. But in recent years, my pitches were being regularly rejected, leaving me dejected and crestfallen.
Then, just before Dashain last year, I received an unexpected call from Krishna Niroula, the principal of the Institute of Advanced Communication, Education and Research (IACER) in Kathmandu. He offered me a chance to teach a course to postgraduate students of English literature, filling in for Ujjwal Prasai, who had left for the US to pursue a PhD. Kamal Dev Bhattarai, another friend who taught at IACER, had recommended me for the course.
Fortunately, I wasn’t starting from scratch. Two years ago, I’d been invited as a guest lecturer in the same course. Even better, the course, “Writing in the Digital Age”, had been designed by a friend, Dinesh Kafle. Knowing I could lean on him if I stumbled gave me some confidence. Still, this was a far cry from my Babarmahal days. I was now standing in front of graduate students and the stakes felt higher.
The course was close to my heart. It introduced students to powerful writing, from George Orwell to David Foster Wallace to English translations of essays by Buddhi Sagar and Raju Syangtan. I made a few tweaks to the reading list, adding some of my personal favorites: Pankaj Mishra, Manjushree Thapa, Indra Bahadur Rai, Declan Walsh, Samanth Subramanian and Peter Matthiessen. Their work had helped shape my worldview as a writer; now, I hoped it would inspire my students too.
From day one, it was clear the students came from diverse backgrounds, but most lacked formal training in writing. The course’s goal–teaching someone how to write well–felt at times like chasing the impossible. And yet, there we were, trying.
The curriculum already featured multimedia: a video of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s “The Danger of a Single Story” was part of the syllabus. I added an audio interview with David Wolf, editor of Guardian Longreads. Wallace’s essay Consider the Lobster, a meditation disguised as a food review, was a surprise hit among the students.
Someone once said: if you want to learn something, teach it. Over those three months, I reconnected with something I’d been losing: my reading habit. Years of social media scrolling and an endless stream of attention-grabbing videos had dulled my focus. But teaching forced me back to the page.
I tried to pass on the lessons I’d gathered from writers and editors I admire and have learned from a great deal over the two decades of my journalism. In 2008, I spent a memorable week at Poynter Institute in Florida. There, I learned the craft of feature writing from masters like Roy Peter Clark, Chip Scanlan and Tom Huang, who hammered home key principles of good writing: brevity, clarity, the power of a strong nut graf or the main idea of the story, the magic of scene-setting.
At IACER, “Show, don’t tell” became my classroom mantra. I was delighted when the students began to echo the phrase in their own reflections. I also emphasized the importance of capturing sensory details–the sights, sounds and smells–that bring writing to life.
I also shared my own journey: how I began as a reporter for the now defunct Nepal Weekly magazine in the early 2000s, writing in Nepali, and eventually won an Alfred Friendly Fellowship in the US in 2008 (that’s when I spent a week learning the craft of writing at Poynter). That experience opened new doors–I wrote for Time magazine, then worked for international news agencies like AFP and dpa. I explained how I went on to write for The New York Times, The Guardian, Al Jazeera, Outside, The Caravan and Nikkei Asia.
Standing before the class each week, I felt a quiet sense of fulfillment. Teaching didn’t just pass on the craft–it rekindled my joy in learning it.
