A young brother and sister were walking hand in hand through a large square in Bungamati

Bungamati is a small town nestled in the hills just south of Kathmandu, Nepal’s capital. The town as a whole is quiet, with only a sparse flow of people, yet the central square possesses an oddly commanding presence. There, a heavy stone Hindu temple sits in solemn grandeur, its magnificence out of proportion with the modest scale of the town. What’s more, the temple is said to have ties with the Kumari cult—the worship of living goddess girls seen in Kathmandu and Patan—so even this provincial place cannot be underestimated. During festivals the square reportedly comes alive with great crowds, but on the day I visited it was almost disappointingly still, with only the sunlight spilling across the stone pavement. I wandered aimlessly about the square, doing nothing in particular.

Then I caught sight of a small boy leading an even smaller girl by the hand. They looked like siblings. The boy stretched out his little arm firmly, as if to shield his sister, while she toddled along, sucking her finger. Both were barefoot, yet neither showed the slightest sign of discomfort at the heat of the ground. The boy, noticing me, fixed me with a strangely grown-up gaze, while the girl, curious, clung tightly to her brother’s hand without letting go. Far removed from the sanctity of Kumari worship, it was a scene filled with the raw texture of everyday life—perhaps, for that very reason, showing more of Bungamati’s true face than any temple ever could.

Of course, my act of watching them was nothing more than a traveler’s idle indulgence. For the siblings, the memory of my presence would vanish within days. But the image captured through my lens would endure far longer, stubbornly preserved. To the locals, tourists are at once a nuisance and something fleeting—like a sudden passing shower.