The Unseen. The Crafted.
The Remembered.

There was a long, open field I used to cross every day on my way to school. It stretched endlessly, the kind of place where time felt slower, where grass bent with the wind, and where each season painted a new face onto the land.

I was quite young when the evening market still existed. In my memories the fluorescent light and the sound of crickets are still imprinted, along with the specific smell of vegetables and fruits. Many people would scatter and push through the crowds to get the best price from the best vendors.

I wish I had more pictures of that corner of Kathmandu where I grew up. Proof that those moments truly existed, something that immortalizes the pristine condition as I remember from my childhood.

Because I feel a village might not always be something you’re born into or inherit from your parents. Sometimes, it can be shared, borrowed, and lived through the people around you.

Now, when I think back to those Saturday mornings, a quiet ache settles in. How a simple snack used to bring immense pleasure, but now it’s just a snack.

Perhaps we grew out of ourselves over time, or it really was the buildings, the number of visitors and playmates went down with each new building. We were gaining new neighbors, but by then, it felt too much like work to make new friends, to know new people.