We were in Bungamati. We had been summoned to the old Newari town that afternoon by artists from Kathmandu University’s Center for Art and Design (KU).Students from KU, their faces painted with abstract streaks and patterns, closely followed Subedi. One of them carried a broken wooden beam salvaged from the post-earthquake rubble. Another one carried a wrecked aankhijhyaal, part of a traditional Newari window. Subedi stopped in front of a damaged building supported by struts. Kneeling on the floor, he pointed the didgeridoo to the ground and continued blowing. A colleague standing sentinel circled Subedi and the struts, sprinkling red powder on the ground. I took a deep breath and snuck myself closer to the act.Soon after the spring disaster, students and faculty members from KU, under artist educator Sujan Chitrakar’s leadership, came together to concentrate their efforts on one specific site, naming their project “Rebuilding Bungamati”. That August afternoon, we followed them as they circled the town and came to a halt in front of the destroyed Rato Matsyendranath temple. A long-haired man, face painted with red, was getting wrapped around by a ribbony fabric, also red. I kept watching. I took some photos. We did not really know what was happening. There had been no explicit explanations. But we all knew what had happened here not too long ago. Meanwhile, new sounds — clangs and rings — had joined the didgeridoo. They all seemed to be calling out to some unknown entity. -
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