My initial encounter with Prativa Subedi occurred amidst the backdrop of the sea, our connection bridged by a photograph spanning three decades. While I found myself in a meticulously restored colonial edifice in Kochi, immersed in an art exhibition, she stood in Japan, engrossed in the promotion of her book, "Nepali Women Rising." Her presence, depicted in the image, exuded a sense of awe as she beheld the ocean for the first time, her blue chiffon saree resembling a rippling wave, delicately manipulated by her hand.
Amidst an exhibition traversing geographical and thematic expanses, why did I gravitate towards her initially? It was a question that lingered as our paths converged once more, this time in the intimacy of my writing sanctuary. Illuminated by the soft glow of my table lamp, the photograph illuminated her cherished memory, revealing nuances unnoticed before. Her gaze, diverted from the camera yet adorned with a gentle smile, evoked maternal warmth, akin to a tender call to the sea, as one would summon a playful child.
Contemplating her experience that evening in 1994, did she retreat to her quarters, penning her reflections in a diary, perhaps in the form of a haiku in her native tongue? Did her words begin with the poignant acknowledgment, "The first encounter often remains the last of its kind"? Had she, in her literary pursuits, contemplated the sea's mysteries prior to their tangible encounter? Seeking insights, I searched for her book online, though unable to peruse its contents fully, discovering glimpses of the sea's presence through sparse mentions on Google Books.
