Stardust and Tika : My Perspective on Dashain.

I’ve always found the air different during Dashain. It’s not just the season, though the autumn brings with it a crispness that feels like a promise—of new beginnings, of endings, and of everything in between. There’s something else in the air, something harder to name. It's a feeling, a stirring deep in my chest, the kind that happens when you stand under a sky full of stars and wonder, Why am I here?

The festival has always had that effect on me—Dashain. It’s more than just a celebration. Yes, there’s the tika, the jamara, the family gatherings, but beneath it all, I find myself thinking about cycles. About time. About the way everything fits together, even when it doesn’t seem to. Maybe it's the philosopher in me, or maybe it’s the way the universe tends to seep into every thought I have. But there's something cosmic about Dashain, something that makes me feel like I’m standing at the edge of time, looking both forward and back.

There’s a certain beauty in the way people gather, the way life slows down. You see it in the faces of those around you, in the reverence with which elders place tika on younger foreheads. There’s a sense of continuity, a passing of time that feels almost… sacred. As if, in this moment, we’re all part of a much larger story. And we are, aren’t we? We’re part of the same story the stars have been telling for millennia, part of the same dust and particles that once formed galaxies.

I’ve always wondered why this festival feels so profound. Maybe it’s because it’s not just about victory over evil, as the stories say. Maybe it’s about the victory of light over darkness within us. The victory of hope. We all need that, don’t we? Life isn’t easy. We go through the motions, we face our battles, we endure. But then, Dashain comes, and it’s like the universe whispers, Pause. Take a breath. You are part of something bigger.

I find myself thinking of the stars again. I can’t help it. There’s something about the way they light up the sky, especially during this time of year, that feels… connected. I look up, and I see the same stars my ancestors must have seen. The same stars my children will one day look up to. And in that, there’s a kind of comfort. A reminder that we’re all just passing through, like the festivals that come and go, like the seasons that change, like the stars that burn and fade. But even in that impermanence, there’s something eternal.

Dashain is like that. It comes every year, without fail, bringing with it the familiar rituals—the cleaning of the house, the flying of kites, the sacrifices, the feasts. It’s all so cyclical, so predictable. And yet, it’s never the same. Every year feels different, maybe because I’m different. Maybe because life has a way of changing you, of making you see things you hadn’t noticed before.

This year, as I sit with my family, watching the younger ones run around in excitement and the elders quietly observing, I’m struck by how small we all are in the grand scheme of things. And yet, in this moment, we are everything. We are the universe experiencing itself, wrapped in the warmth of tradition, in the laughter of loved ones, in the glow of celebration. It’s a fleeting moment, sure, but isn’t everything?

Maybe that’s what Dashain is really about. It’s a reminder that in this vast, ever-changing cosmos, we have these small, perfect moments. Moments where the light triumphs over the darkness, even if just for a while. Moments where we come together, despite the chaos of life, and remember what it means to belong—to a family, to a tradition, to a universe so much bigger than ourselves.

And maybe, just maybe, we must leave our feet from the ground at least once a year. Dashain gives us that chance—the moment to rise, to let go of the weight we carry every day, and to soar like the kites we fly. It’s in our nature, isn’t it? Maybe once a year, we need to lift our feet from the ground. Dashain gives us that moment on the swing—when, for just a breath, we are weightless, suspended between earth and sky. In that brief ascent, we remember what it feels like to let go, to trust the air, to rise. Just as we now dare to leave Earth and reach for the stars, Dashain reminds us that sometimes, we must rise above the ground, if only to remind ourselves that we can.

But now, we dare to leave Earth itself, reaching for the stars that have called to us for so long. Perhaps that’s what this festival truly celebrates—the audacity to rise above, to let go of our ties to the mundane, and to reach for something greater. Whether it’s in the simple act of lifting our eyes skyward or in the bold endeavor of exploring the cosmos, Dashain reminds us that we are meant to fly.

So, as I look around, I take it all in. The sounds, the smells, the sights. I hold onto it because I know that, like everything else, it will pass. But for now, in this moment, it’s enough. Just like the stars, just like the festival, just like life itself. Fleeting, but somehow… just right.