Kathmandu has seen drastic changes in recent years. A Valley once known for its community spaces—and resting places—is now a clutter of bricks and concrete and corroded asphalt.

As we walk back from Siddhakali Mandir, near Bhojpur Bajaar, Barta Gandharba tells me how she remembers performing in the small town. She points at a corner and tells me how she once sat down on the steps right outside the electronic store with her mother and crooned Purbeli folk songs for the passersby.

Echoes in the Valley 2017 was a grand affair. Two-hundred Nepali and international artists took to stage in Ason and Janabahal, Kathmandu, to perform for the sake of promoting and preserving traditionally practiced performing arts, more specifically music.

If you happen to pass in or out of Patan Dhoka, Lalitpur, of late, you are bound to encounter at least a few artists busy working on either one of the facades of the gate, painting.

You take your shoes off before entering Kaalo 101. The cold from the terracotta tiled floor is for everybody to soak in. Also, the gesture makes you feel like you are entering somebody’s home, not a gallery.

For a Kathmandu resident who lived in the city in the 90s and the early years of the millennium, Anil Sthapit’s workspace—a modestly-sized third-floor apartment in a building opposite to Ranjana Shopping Centre’s entrance—is like a time machine.