It's late when we finish feeding the several hundred villagers present. The hillside is covered in paper and leaf plates, bones and beaten rice. The Thapas haul their offerings home, leaving just as abruptly as they have showed up. Muga is emptied of its festive vitality, once again, just another Nepali village. And what do I feel? Rooted? Muga was hardly even a place of imagined myth for me. What does it mean to me now I have seen something of my past?
Rabi Thapa celebrates Dewali (and feeds several hundred villagers while he's at it!)>>
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