KATHMANDU: There is something unmistakably unique about the way Dr Tirtha Bahadur Shrestha writes. His essays rarely begin abruptly. Instead, they open like music, with the cadence of a poem or the echo of a song, gently drawing the reader into his world. So, in his spirit, I too wish to begin with two lines from a ghazal written by the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, and made immortal in the velvet voice of the king of ghazals, Mehdi Hassan:

Baat karni mujhe mushkil kabhi aisi to na thi,
Jaisi ab hai teri mehfil, kabhi aisi to na thi.

Never before has speaking felt as difficult as it does today, because no other book launch gathering has carried the weight, warmth, and distinction of this one. This is the launch of Dr Shrestha’s book. And so, standing here does not bring just one difficulty, but many. It is not merely challenging. It is overwhelming in the most meaningful way.

As this book gradually took shape, I had the opportunity to read many of the pieces included in it, along with several that did not make it into the final collection. And each time I returned to those writings, they seemed even more beautiful than before. Searching for the reason behind that feeling, I remembered something I once read in a journalism text: reaching many people at once becomes possible when two qualities come together. First, a writer must possess deep knowledge of the subject. Second, they must master the art of expression. By now, it is already clear that Shrestha possesses both in abundance.

Let us bring up the context of another book.

After the publication of Amber Gurung’s memoir Kaha Gaye Ti Dinhru, most of those who met him used to say, ‘The book was finished in just one sitting. ‘ Two people who came to meet him also said the same. Amber asked out of curiosity, ‘How many hours did it take to finish reading?’ Both of them said around four hours. After that, he said to those two people, ‘You liars! The articles/book I wrote within a time of 40 years, you finished in four hours?’

A reader living in Canada once called Amber Gurung to praise the book. Curious, he asked whether she had already finished reading it. Her reply was memorable: “Sir, I am reading this book very carefully, almost sparingly. I keep returning to the same essays three or four times before moving ahead.”

As this book gradually took shape, I had the opportunity to read many of the pieces included in it, along with several that did not make it into the final collection. And each time I returned to those writings, they seemed even more beautiful than before.

This is not an embellished anecdote or a story retold for effect. Amber himself recounts it in the preface to the second edition of the book.

Dr Shrestha’s book, however, need not be read so sparingly. And there are two reasons for that.

The first is that three more of his books are already waiting in line for publication. They seem almost impatient, waiting for readers to finish this one so they, too, can finally emerge into the world.

In the book Standing at the Absolute Front of this queue, Shrestha has written about humans. About individuals, about himself, about the people who raised him, about the people who taught him, about the people who supported and non-cooperated with him in his profession, and about the people he worked together with and who contributed from various sectors to move society even further forward, meaning basically about ideal humans.

In the course of writing his own stories and the stories of others, he has written about the Nepali society of that time, which feels strange now, which is the foundation of the society we are living in today.

The second book is about the biological heritage of Nepal. It is about the subject of recognizing and utilizing that heritage.

The travelogue or travel memoir he is writing will be a unique book of travelogues or travel memoirs written in Nepali. Because of the extent to which he has traveled Nepal, others have not traveled that much. The beauty of the words, sentences, and paragraphs written by his pen is beyond description.

Let us look at two kinds of examples. First, the era in which the journey was made, and the sheer length of the journey itself.

This was a journey undertaken around 1965, nearly sixty years ago. Dr. Shrestha writes that it began in Dhangadhi, continued to Silgadhi in Doti, and from there stretched onward through Bajhang, Bajura, and all the way to Jhualaghat. It was a journey that lasted nearly eighty days.

And this book contains many such chapters, filled with stories from journeys just as long, demanding, and extraordinary.

One cannot help but wonder: would a contemporary travel writer today devote even a single chapter to an 80-day journey of this scale?

Now let us look at two examples of writing.

He once journeyed into the trans-Himalayan world of Nepal, the land beyond the mountains that seems to cradle the country in its vast embrace. In describing that journey through Dolpa, he writes:

“That high grassland of Dolpa felt like an extension of the Tibetan Plateau itself. Sleeping inside the tent at night, I would wake up two or three times. Sleep felt thin, just like the air. The air was so sparse that every few moments it felt as though one had forgotten to breathe. Whenever I stepped out of the sleeping bag at night, I would look up at the sky. It glittered with stars. Never before had I seen stars shine with such brilliance as they did in that immense silence. They seemed so close that it felt almost joyful beyond words. I never wanted to go back inside the tent. But once the cold deepened, there was no choice. In that profound silence of Dolpa, wandering beneath those shimmering stars felt extraordinary. It was something entirely different, perhaps what heaven feels like, or perhaps the peace of the universe itself can only be found there. In my memory, Dolpa remains a land where one could almost pluck stars from the sky.”

Another example: the doctor has written about what he saw in and from Lho, a village in the Gorkha district:

“Clusters of tightly packed houses, most of them two stories tall. Roofs layered with overlapping wooden planks. Walls built from stone and mud. Wide, empty terraces where the wheat harvest had already been gathered. We had pitched our tents near the upper edge of the village.

It was the fifth of May. Four in the morning. I stepped out of the tent and looked up. In the deep northern sky, the towering outline of Manaslu emerged in the northwest. At first, it was difficult to tell whether it was merely a shadow or an actual mountain. Then, slowly, the summit began to reveal itself in a faint blue light, and from that moment onward, blinking felt impossible.

Before long, the entire mountain appeared wrapped in a single sheet of ice, as though someone had painted Japan’s Mount Fujiyama entirely in blue and placed it before my eyes. Until then, I had only seen pictures of Fujiyama. Here, the vision stood alive and immense before me.

In my memory, Dolpa remains a land where one could almost pluck stars from the sky.

I rushed back into the tent to fetch my camera. I tried taking photographs but failed completely. Just then, the upper ridges of the peak were brushed with pale yellow light. Gradually, it seemed as if a vast mass of molten gold were spreading across the sky. By the time I adjusted the camera again, the summit had already turned orange. Slowly, the whole mountain began to shimmer in glowing shades of amber and gold.

Then, suddenly, a lone cloud drifted above the summit and stood perfectly still. It looked almost like volcanic smoke rising from the peak itself, a cloud of melted gold suspended in the sky.”

Half of the answer to the question of how such a thing can be written is found in the essay titled ‘The Best Man in the History of Nepali Literature,’ located in Laxmi Prasad Devkota’s Laxmi Essay Collection. There, without mentioning poetry, he has written the context of Bhanubhakta’s poetry writing regarding Balaju. That poem is like this:

Yati dinpachhi maile aaj Balaji dekhya

Prithivi talabhari ma swarga ho jaani lekhya.

Devkota has written, ‘He (Bhanubhakta) had not gone to Balaju to become a poet like a modern poet but had become a poet upon arriving at Balaju. That place had touched him.’

Let us ‘remix’ this statement of Devkota this way.

Dr Shrestha had not gone to the lap of Dolpa or Manaslu to become a travelogue writer like a modern travelogue writer. Rather, he had become a travelogue writer upon reaching those places. Those places had made him a travelogue writer.

The travelogue writers who travel to become travelogue writers and the travelogue writers made by the places traveled belong to separate categories. Because the human who travels to become a travelogue writer writes with the hand, the human who became a travelogue writer while traveling writes with the heart.

However, even the most beautiful place cannot make every traveling human write well. I am the example of that. The mountain seen by Doctor, I had also seen from the very place he saw it, a few years after he had seen it. That too, not at the time when fog sets in and the sky is a bit less clear, like the doctor saw, but I had seen it on a beautiful morning that opened up after a long heavy rain washed away the dust of the sky at the beginning of autumn. However, no matter how much I tried, I could not write like that. I feel that to write such a beautiful thing, one must perform highly with massive dedication. It is difficult to encounter travelogue writers who have the patience to do so.

A few years ago, while preparing to speak for the launching of Dr Shrestha’s book Nepal Adhyayan (Part 1), I had felt that there should be maps having information on the pedestrian path walked by him in that book, the year that path was walked, the time taken to walk that path, et cetera. Because, even if one could not walk the path walked by him while looking at that map and reading his book, a pleasant imagination of oneself also walking that very path could indeed be made.

Now I have felt that this is the appropriate book to keep a map, meaning his travelogue book, in. Hopefully, these things will also come with this book.

The travelogue writers who travel to become travelogue writers and the travelogue writers made by the places traveled belong to separate categories. Because the human who travels to become a travelogue writer writes with the hand, the human who became a travelogue writer while traveling writes with the heart.

This is the first reason why this book must be finished reading soon. Meaning, not reading this book is to not let out so many books on such good subjects, written in such a beautiful way.

The second reason why this book must be finished reading quickly is reading this book one time is not enough. It must be read repeatedly.

At its heart, this book is about the culture Nepalis created while learning to live with, adapt to and sometimes struggle against the geography and the five elements that shaped their surroundings. It explores how people fulfilled both the tangible and intangible necessities of life while remaining deeply intertwined with the land they inhabited.

That is why this book must first be read from beginning to end. But one reading alone is not enough. It should be revisited with every returning season and every changing month of the year.

For example, once spring arrives, readers should return to the opening essays of the book, to pieces such as “Buddha Janmasthal Lumbini” and “Himal Chadhnaikai Lagi Matra Hoina.” When the month after mid-June arrives with the monsoon rains, it becomes time to revisit essays like “Asarko Raat Jhamjham Barsaad,” “Tyo Asar Yo Asar,” and “Upaharma Barpipal,” along with “Jaivik Bibidhatama Bhanu Chetana” during the occasion of Bhanu Jayanti. Then, with the arrival of Indra Jatra, one must return to “Phool Chor Indrako Jatra.”

After reading this lesson, nowadays when going for a morning walk, upon seeing Parijat flowers fallen all over the ground, one has to remember the matter that Indra came to Kathmandu to take that flower, caught him calling him a thief, and celebrated Indra Jatra to give punishment. Even remembering the matter that the powerful Kathmandu kingdom, which punished the king of heaven, Indra, had to lose its independence on the very day of Indra Jatra is fine.

During Ganesh Chaturthi, one should return to essays such as “Anga Pratyaropanko Parakashtha,” about Ganesh and the transplantation of his trunk, along with “Paryaparyatanka Aacharsamhita.” Then autumn arrives almost immediately, bringing with it Dashain, Tihar, and Mha Puja, and the essays connected to those festivals must be revisited as faithfully as the annual return of the Malashree tune, the singing of Deusi, or the lighting of Deepawali lamps.

Afterward comes Minpachas, then Maghe Sankranti, and then Fagu Purnima. Each season carries its own mood, memory, and ritual, and this book invites readers to return to those moments again and again through its pages. And after mid-April, it becomes time once more to read about Buddha.

In this way, rereading the book year after year allows one to rediscover the character of every season and every month one lives through. One begins to sense their fragrance, feel their softness, witness their beauty, and listen to their quiet melodies. By understanding the gifts nature and tradition offer us and by learning ways to lessen the hardships they bring, life itself can perhaps become simpler, richer, and more joyful.

In closing, I would like permission to present two opening lines from another ghazal sung by Mehdi Hassan and to ‘remix’ them in my own way:

Duniya kisi ke pyar mein jannat se kam nahi,
Ik dilruba hai dil mein jo hooron se kam nahi.

For those who choose to live alongside this book, the world itself may begin to feel like jannat, like heaven. And within the heart, this book will remain like another beloved presence, no less precious than a cherished companion.

(Views expressed on August 16, 2025, at the launch ceremony of botanist Tirtha Bahadur Shrestha’s book Nepal Gatha. The book is set to receive this year’s “Uttam Shanti Puraskar.)