Kathmandu, Dec. 1 -- Every time I visit my grandparents' village in Arghakhanchi during Dashain or Tihar, I feel like I am stepping into a place where two different worlds exist at once. There are fields that used to be full of millet and corn. Some now look strangely empty. The old dhansar, the storage room where my grandparents kept seeds safe from mice and moisture, sits half-used. Sometimes when I walk in, I can almost picture how full it used to be: sacks of grain stacked carefully, the air thick with the earthy smell of stored harvest. A few buffaloes and goats still wander around but far fewer than when I was younger. Most of the young people who cared for them have moved away for work in the Middle East, Malaysia, or India.

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