Years after the earth cracked open beneath Nepal’s capital, Kathmandu remains suspended in a delicate, dreamlike limbo. Sunlight cuts through air thick with dust, each ray carving golden paths through crumbling courtyards, fractured walls, and alleyways lined with the remnants of what once stood.
The earthquake’s scars are not just physical but atmospheric. Rubble gathers in the corners of streets like forgotten memories, and buildings lean slightly, held upright by faith, wood, and inertia. During the dry season, a fine ash rises from the city’s skin, dancing in the warm air until it blankets the valley in a pale, ochre veil.
But this beauty is not without consequence. The dust that softens the light also fills lungs. In the dry months, Kathmandu’s air becomes almost unbreathable, thick with smoke, diesel exhaust, and crushed stone. Mornings and evenings come and go under a sky that hides the mountains behind layers of particulate haze. Asthma, eye irritation, fatigue, the invisible cost of living in this atmosphere quietly shapes daily life. The pollution doesn’t just obscure the view; it dims vitality, turning each breath into an effort.
Still, life presses on. Children play beneath sagging rooftops; vendors sweep dust from their stalls; and centuries-old temples tilt gracefully into the future. In Kathmandu, beauty and decay are inseparable. And through the lens, the city reveals itself, not as a ruin, but as a portrait of resilience caught in golden suspension.