All this is on my mind as I venture back to Katmandu for the first time in three years. I had prepared for arrival in a dysfunctional wasteland, yet I find the capital as lively, loquacious and diverse as I’ve seen it in more than 20 years of visiting. There is one exception: nobody seems willing to talk about the future.
On my way to Swayambhunath, the Monkey Temple, I pass ethnic Indian women in saris and Tibetan women in thick plum-colored skirts with square aprons; Western backpackers; yak herdsmen from higher altitudes come down to the valley to trade; old women carrying single gigantic cauliflowers to market; youngsters in white-and-navy school uniforms in the best British tradition.
Pradeep, whom I meet at the top of the Monkey Temple’s long stone staircase, is an economics student. He is prepared to talk about anything except politics. While I’m trying to figure out a way to persuade him to open up, a slapstick comedy unfolds: as a Swiss tourist reaches into her handbag and takes out an apple to eat after the long climb up the stairs, a monkey moving at warp speed grabs the fruit in two tiny hands. The Swiss tourist lets out a little scream of shock, by which time the monkey has retreated to the top of the stupa, where he nonchalantly munches on the apple.
”You see,” says Pradeep, laughing, ”you want me to speculate on the future of my country, which is one of the poorest in the world, while that wealthy Westerner cannot control the future long enough to get an apple from her bag into her mouth. There is no certainty but change.”

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