During Dashain, elders bless us with tika—a dab of rice on the forehead. We munch on sel roti, a sweet, crispy rice-flour treat, during festivals. In July, we celebrate Khir Khaney Din with creamy rice pudding, and babies get their first taste of solid food with Pasni, the rice-feeding ceremony.
Even in honoring ancestors, rice plays a role with pinda, sacred rice balls. And on Ropain—National Paddy Day in June—everyone, from farmers to city folks, gets muddy planting rice and some of them snacking on dahi chiura (yogurt with beaten rice). From first bite to final rites, rice is with us every step of the way.
Knowing all these essences of rice, I visited Khokana—a village preserving Kathmandu’s farming heritage. There, I met Sarmaya Maharjan, who’s been farming since she was 12. Now 42, she’s lived through the 2015 earthquake, the 2021 pandemic, and decades of change. Born and married in Khokana, Sarmaya is not just a farmer—she’s the village’s living memory.
Sarmaya shared traditions I’d never heard before. “We’d start rice planting with a little puja and a mud tika on the forehead,” she said. “If there was a new bride, she led the rituals—blessing the tools before jumping into the fields. We splashed each other with mud and water, and the bundle of rice seedlings was grouped in two or three places, a practice known as Bakari Ropeyko. Bhakari is a traditional container where we store rice. This practice symbolized yielding the same Bhakari’s worth of grain in return.” Interesting, right?
Talking to Sarmaya about Ropain, I could feel her excitement—even after all these years. “Some things never change,” she said, “like splashing in the mud, singing while planting, and sharing food with everyone.” For her, it’s still just as fun as it was 30 years ago. Her excitement took me back to my teenage days, running off to join the Ropain fun—mud fights, good food, and all. Now, when I think about joining the Ropain celebration, I am as thrilled as Sarmaya is!
Sarmaya has seen agriculture change in every way, from the rice seeds we use to the tools we rely on. Back when she started, water came from the Dhal canal and rains, while farmers worked the land with traditional tools like the kutto (plough), kodalo (hoe), and halo (sickle). We grew old varieties like Solamaro and Taichil rice before switching to Pokharel and Jeera Masino. Travel was tough—farmers walked long distances, and seedlings were grown from home-preserved seeds.
Meals during Ropain were a treat: makai ko jad (fermented maize drink), aloo sadeko (Nepali potato salad), chyang (fermented rice drink), chiura (beaten rice), and sukeyko mula (dried radish), all served on pumpkin leaves or tapari (leaf plates). To stay dry, people wore ghung—raincoats made from sacks—and used plant leaves. The Parma system, where farmers exchanged labor, was in full swing.
Today, farming is a lot more high-tech. We use generators and machinery for irrigation, and tractors have replaced the old hand tools for tilling. Now, we mostly grow Basmati and Akley Dhan rice, as they’re in high demand. Seeds come from the market or the Department of Agriculture.
Meals during Ropain have changed too. Now, you’ll find aloo sadeko, khuwa, choila, aaila, and even Coca-Cola served in paper or plastic cups and plates. Raincoats and umbrellas have replaced the old sack covers, and the traditional Parma system is becoming a rare sight.
Sarmaya’s life has seen big changes too. From having more freedom to choose what to eat and wear, to shifts in transportation and work culture, she’s raised two kids—her son now lives abroad, and her daughter is with them. While urbanization has brought more freedom and independence, it also meant less land for farming. In fact, Sarmaya has noticed that only one-third of the initial farmland remains for cultivation in Khokana over these years.
According to the Agriculture Census 2021/22 as listed on The HRM Nepal, Nepal has lost about 300,000 hectares of farmland in the last decade. To keep up with rising demand despite shrinking land, modern farming practices have taken over. But this raises a crucial question: Are we losing the indigenous culture, traditions, and rituals that once defined us? While rice production may be increasing, the essence of our cultural values is at risk. If this rapid pace of change continues, can we really preserve our future?
