Boris Lissanveitch, the man lauded for his contribution in bringing western tourists for the first time to Nepal, once famously remarked: “If I lived in Kathmandu, my life time would increase by 15 years.” He loved walking around the city, which at the time was an enigmatic polis just opening out to the world. But in the six decades since Boris made his statement, the hidden jewel of the world has become a blazing inferno. If you live in Kathmandu today, your life would likely be shortened by 15 years, not elongated as Boris mused. 

Today, like Daal-Bhat, smog has become a part of our daily diet. It follows us everywhere—from the time we wake up in the morning, till we bring our weary bodies home at night. The air is toxic, yet what can we do? It is one of the few things that we all have to share equally—as we do its consequences.

When my smog stained lungs set me on a coughing train which sounded like roaring thunders in lonely dales and plains, I was recently forced to visit the doctor.

“Oh, nothing serious, just a common dust allergy,” the doctor brushed away my pain, and then asked me to stay away from the pollution.  His words did not relieve my pain, but it was a relief to know that I was not developing symptoms of something more serious.  And then, with a calm face, as if stating a matter of no great consequence, he added, “A prolonged exposure now is a fertile breeding ground for your lungs to develop some form of a serious lung disease in 10 years time. Nothing to worry about just yet.”

Walking back from the hospital, I noticed a traffic police, coughing, trapped in her little island of pain, yet overlooking her physical disquiet to continue with her duty.

It is a secret place, this island of pain. We all pass by it, yet we are all alone. While in pain and discomfort, we are like Philoctetes, the Trojan War soldier, who was abandoned by his generals in an isolated island to suffer through his disease. 

It is our family, concerned with our well-being, who may come to the shore of this island we are trapped in, but most of the time our pain goes unacknowledged. Our politicians, who so deftly brought us to the street united against repressive regimes, have moved on themselves. They scuttle past us in their insulated motorcades to their air-conditioned homes, but we remain in the streets, with just a swirl of dust and smoke for company.

At 7:30 am on a working day, the air quality index in Kathmandu is 164. This index is based on the level of Particulate Matter (PM 2.5) in the air. PM 2.5 is considered to be one of the most harmful air pollutants that lodge into human lungs and blood tissues, increasing the chances of lung cancer and other life-threatening respiratory diseases. In everyday language, this means that people identified as sensitive (children, elderly) must stay indoors, and others are recommended to use ample precautions. But at 7:30 am on a working day, the children are heading to school, joggers are trotting in the roads and vendors are setting up shops to sell their vegetables for the day.

My doctor informs that he receives 10-15 patients every day who have contracted dust allergy or other pollution related lung infections, and then relays the most important aspect of avoiding dust allergies, “Avoid walking.”

What is a city if it cannot be walked? So, I listen to his counsel knowing I will not be able to heed to it. I will have to comply as much as possible to preserve my health, and so will the others, but we will have to continue with our daily activities. The city must go on. But for how long?

Are we going to wait for Kathmandu to be as bad as Delhi before a measure is taken towards alleviating our suffering? Should there be more corpses or a longer queue at hospitals for us to realise that the rising air pollution in the Valley needs urgent attention? After all, it took two recorded deaths for the government to start covering man-holes in the city. Should we accept that casualties are the only way of getting things get moving in this country?

The air is causing all of us to suffer, nonetheless, like the traffic police and philoctetes, we all have to float on in our island of pain, alone. But if we learn to look around, we might realise that everybody else is also caught in a bubble of agony. Acknowledgement of our collective pain, which we endure individually, is a first step towards solving the issue.

Else, if we learn to look over the pollution and continue with our daily lives then we might soon forget what it feels like to be healthy.