Muted Teej Celebrations at Pashupatinath Amid Nepal’s Flood Tragedy

Every year the Pashupatinath Temple swells with colour, music and the rhythmic clatter of bangles as women celebrate Haritalika Teej. This time, however, the courtyard was almost silent, the usual throng reduced to a handful of devout participants.

On the third day of the dark half of Bhadra, women normally fast, dress in bright red saris and offer prayers to Lord Shiva and Parvati. They would sing of longing, of hopes for a long‑lasting marriage, and dance in serpentine lines that stretched for hundreds of metres. This year, the same rituals were performed, but without the joyous choruses and bustling queues that once defined the day.

“The nation is still reeling from the Bhotekoshi floods,” said Sita Khanal Bhattarai, a devotee who travelled to the temple despite the sorrow. “We are here only to keep the rites alive; the atmosphere is far from the celebratory spirit we know.” Her words echoed the melancholy that hangs over the whole country.

Just a month earlier, relentless monsoon waters ripped through five districts, carving a path of destruction that left at least 1,392 people dead and more than 5,000 missing. Rescue teams continue to comb the devastated valleys, while families mourn and rebuild.

Neelam Shah, another pilgrim, described the scene with quiet resignation: “We would have danced and sung if not for the tragedy. Today we simply pray, hoping the god will protect us from future calamities.” Her sentiment captures the collective grief that has turned a festival of joy into a solemn act of devotion.

Despite the gloom, the core of Teej – fasting, prayer and the wearing of bangles, pote necklaces and sindur – remains unchanged. Women still bathe at dawn, light lamps at dusk and stay awake through the night, offering their wishes for health, prosperity and, for unmarried women, a suitable partner.

The mythic roots of Haritalika Teej are recounted in the Skanda Purana, where Parvati, the daughter of the Himalayas, defied a marriage to Vishnu and was concealed by her maids. That ancient tale of devotion and perseverance resonates now more than ever, as Nepalis cling to their traditions amid unprecedented hardship.

While large‑scale programs have been cancelled and the temple’s outer square sits eerily quiet, the few women who gathered did so out of a sense of duty, determined to keep the cultural flame alive. Their muted chants may lack the volume of previous years, but they carry the weight of a nation’s hope for recovery.