In an admittedly unpractical way, I sometimes wish for the absolute darkness imposed by routine power cuts. There is something fascinating about entire communities being plunged into the slow, deliberate rhythm of a dimly-lit world.

At face value, the Paltan Ghar in Asan is one more intriguing historical building in the Valley that is in dire want of upkeep.

A teenager in a floral Kimono has been rolling hand-rolled cigarettes in boredom; a man in a knock-off Belgium jersey has been finagling with the overwhelmed, solitary waiter about the beer options. A cloud of smoke hangs heavy over the ceiling, pregnant with expectation.

Kathmandu is perched on shaky ground; and its residents know it. Over the past millennia of recorded history, dozens of earthquakes—of varying magnitudes—have rumbled through the Valley, often leaving widespread casualties and destruction in their wake. But with each calamity, Kathmandu’s residents have stepped up to the plate, picked up the broken pieces and restored what was lost—its stunning architectural marvels renewed and passed on to the next generation for upkeep.

It is nearly 5 pm and the cloistered neighbourhood of Nhaikantala in Asan feels exhausted from a hectic day of shoppers streaming in and out of its jewellery and electronic stores.

At one point during her TEDx talk delivered in Jaipur, actor Manisha Koirala gives out this sagacious advice: “We have a choice—we can either be consumed by our problems, become a victim and be defined by that problem, or we can turn it around into a platform for our growth.

For a man considered to be one of the most famous early missionaries to travel to Asia and the first European to have truly penetrated the Tibetan language and culture, Ippolito Desideri was largely unimpressed with Kathmandu.

In yet another misstep in the reconstruction of heritage sites damaged by 2015 Gorkha Earthquakes, use of cement in the rebuilding of the historic Jaya Bageshwori Temple in Pashupati has drawn a widespread criticism from locals and heritage conservationists.

There are those that describe Tundikhel as Kathmandu’s lungs. In a city that is swallowing itself whole, Tundikhel is one of the last surviving large public spaces in its inner core.

At their small office overlooking Kasthamandap, a group of young volunteers for the Campaign to Rebuild Kasthamandap are huddled in a circle, discussing the flurry of events that have taken place at the seventh century monument this week.

By the time I huff and haul my way up Swoyambhu, the Gyanmala Bhajan Khaala is just about wrapping up their morning session.

Last week, following a characteristically long, and occasionally barbed, tirade by KP Sharma Oli and a conspicuously short cameo by Sher Bahadur Deuba in the Parliament, Pushpa Kamal Dahal walked up to the pulpit and began his speech by admitting he was unsure about how long his own address should be, given the two starkly different precedents.

I know you remember that morning as vividly as I do. It was my fourteenth birthday and I woke up to the horror of my dad standing over my bed, whispering, “Jyanmara le sabbai lai sidhyayo.” That murderer finished them all.

Why Patan has just one chariot festival might not be a question that has tickled your fancy before. Yet, once stirred, why the City of Arts has just the elaborate festival for the Bungdyo is not a question that is easily shaken off.

“There is no space for us. No one lets us in. No one knocks on our doors. No one asks about our homes no one contacts our families.