On a rainy afternoon, I found myself sitting in a microbus. I leaned closer towards the window while passengers crowded inside as if my slight adjustment would miraculously carve enough space for everyone on board. Approximately ten seats were inside, enclosed by a low ceiling that forced unfortunate standers to duck their heads. I was lucky to snag a window seat before the bus picked up more people.

After several staggered pauses every few meters—in an attempt to pick up as many stragglers as possible—we finally took off. The ride was slow and uneventful, sans the moisture accumulating on my right shoulder. I clutched the umbrella in my lap and absentmindedly watched the traffic passing by, noting the buildings and restaurants on the route that had grown surprisingly familiar through my first month in Nepal.

It was quite different from my first few days here when everything was unfamiliar. Even in America, I had never lived or worked in a big city, and Kathmandu's pollution and bustling traffic were something to get used to. I had grown well-adjusted to crossing roads and dodging motorbikes on my daily walks. Sometimes, I stopped at a local fruit vendor and picked up a mango.

I suppose I was “living like a local” somehow, cramming myself into a microbus for Rs20 or buying fruit for another 50. But perhaps more accurately, I realised that my two-month stint in Nepal involved more careful coexistence with the locals than anything.

Since arriving, I have coexisted with others as I have never done before. I was overly cautious of the shared kitchen in my living space or ensuring I didn’t step on anyone’s toes on a crowded bus. I turned my eyes from stares as I walked down the street, unsure if it was my clothing, my face, or some other indistinguishable characteristic that marked me as different.

My fateful afternoon ride on the microbus also reminded me of my work in Nepal. This summer, I was interning at Siddhartha Art Gallery in preparation for the Kathmandu Triennale in 2026. The theme of the Triennale is coexistence, kinship, and care.

During my internship, I realised there was much more to coexistence than difference. One of the goals of the Triennale is to explore coexistence as “kinship among all beings, peoples, cultures, ecologies, faiths, and thoughts.” Kinship, intimacy, and solidarity are all movements of coexistence that build bridges across seemingly vast chasms of difference.

In honour of the upcoming Triennale, the Australian Embassy held a reception on July 26, which I was lucky enough to attend, to formally introduce the event and its thematic importance. Gathered in Australian ambassador Felicity Volk’s home was an eclectic group of people from Switzerland to Cambodia, who all seemed excited to learn more about what the team behind the 2026 Triennale had in store for them. Volk opened the reception with a powerful speech on coexistence and art.

“As we look around at a world fractured by politics, by war and heightened geopolitical tensions, by climate change and environmental devastation…as we look at all of this, we are reminded that we also need to look for the ways we are united,” she declared, continuing to highlight the crucial role that artists play in healing such deep fractures. “In a time of crisis—a crisis of existence and coexistence—we need the humanity, the self-expression, the healing and the community that the artists and their arts create and nourish.”

I couldn’t agree more. As I researched prospective artists for the 2026 Triennale, I noticed that their works often explored similar themes like displacement, indigeneity, and women’s rights while maintaining the individual style and perspective that made their art uniquely theirs. These were also artists across the world, heralding from Nepal to Australia. Somehow, I felt a thread of solidarity running through their creations; they seemed to speak to a universal struggle for liberation.

Scrolling through daily news articles and videos, I could sense that commonality underpinning so much of the media circulating worldwide, echoing calls for justice, protest and revolution. In a uniquely post-colonial and digital world, many of us have reckoned that we could not distance ourselves from injustice simply because of its location.

The Kathmandu Triennale also brings together international and local artists. I found this form of globalisation potent—not only to wonder but to know that someone was encountering the same obstacles as you thousands of miles away. Here was this foreigner whose name you had never heard of before, and they were grieving, too, and feeling, too. Suddenly, their work did not feel so foreign anymore.

In Nepal, I found myself experiencing intimate moments in surprising places. For one, the microbus, where I sat knee-to-knee with a dozen strangers, packed together like sardines. If the bus stopped suddenly, we all lurched forward like our bodies had been tied together and then untied the moment the bus moved again. Afterwards, we laughed, albeit a bit nervously, and apologised to the person whose arm we grabbed for support.

Afterwards, I was unsure if everyone on board could still be strangers. I was reminded of my college coursework, which introduced me to intimacy, kinship, and its unexpected manifestations. One of my professors explained that kinship was often established through ritual. However, the rituals didn’t have to be remarkable or elaborate. It could be mundane or sneakily Quotidian. The everyday repetition of crossing the street in Nepal came to my mind. I was initially terrified, missing the well-obeyed traffic lights and pedestrian crossings I had taken for granted in my hometown. But as I completed each daily commute to work, crossing the road grew increasingly more reflexive.

It was easiest when I wasn’t alone. Walking alongside a stranger, our steps synchronised, both of us hoping to match the other. It was oddly reassuring. Upon reaching the other side, we swiftly parted ways. Then we were strangers again, united only by one fleeting spurt of required coordination, but this ritual would repeat itself, day after day, with countless people who were strangers but, briefly, not quite.

As my time in Nepal ends, I reflect on these fleeting moments of kinship and intimacy in anticipation of the Triennale. Caring for one another is critical, especially as a global community. How can we express that care through artwork? How can we truly hear each other? The first step might be recognising the importance of active rather than passive coexistence. Solidarity is a challenging thing to build. Realising common hardship, demystifying what is foreign, identifying the artist as more than just an artist and the stranger as more than a stranger—only then can we walk together.