Sparrows Don’t Wait for Permission: My Flight from Fractured Nest

In January 2024, I began following house sparrows—not the birds of lush green forests, but Kathmandu’s gritty survivors. These tiny architects built their nest anywhere they thought reasonable. In their stubborn adaptability, I saw my own reflection. They became my teachers.

This is a story of how sparrows taught me to thrive even under restrictions.

I moved into my old ancestral house in September 2023, fully aware of the challenges that awaited me. Once a complete home, it now lay fractured—spaces divided and doors closed off from what once was whole. Rooms were allocated like chess pieces in a game I never agreed to play. Haunted by echoes of a chaotic past, it stood as a reminder of a childhood I’d rather forget. My other family members had already found refuge on the outskirts of Kathmandu, taking all of their belongings with them yet leaving the house burdened with enduring restrictions and subtle power play. Here, even basic necessities became constant battlegrounds. But this house, with its barred windows and missing comforts, became my studio and my temporary home. 

It was here, in January 2024, that I first noticed them: house sparrows darting through Kathmandu’s chaos. They nestled in the most uncomfortable places—hoods of shop shutters, nesting holes in old houses, and gaps and vents in concrete. No space was too harsh, and no corner was too exposed for these tiny rebels. These house sparrows didn’t wait for anyone’s permission to call it home. 

Slowly, I began documenting their lives—how they turned scraps into nests, noise into song, and crumbs into food for their family. How they thrived not despite the chaos but within it. In their world, survival wasn’t a compromise—it was an art. 

nspired, I sculpted ceramic sparrows—delicate bodies glazed in copper luster—and I placed them on Kathmandu’s labyrinth of wires collected from the streets, the same wire where they perched like fugitives in the artificial trees of Kathmandu city. The work, titled “My Freedom Caught in the Branches of Fake Trees,” was both a confession and a vow. 

These birds were mirrors. Like them, I’d learned to adapt. Like them, I had built my nest in the most traumatic place ever. Like them, I learned to sing through smog. But unlike them, I am not bound by instinct. A sparrow doesn’t dream of cleaner skies—it builds with what it has. But I? I am human. I can choose to fly.

In 2025, I leave. Not as a victim of this city’s decay, but as a student of its sparrows. They taught me to survive and adjust; now I’ll teach myself to soar. My new upcoming works will be a testament to my journey of flight, a love letter to resilience, and a promise: 

” No cage, no matter how familiar, is forever. “

To those nesting in storms: Look at the sparrows. They don’t ask why the air is toxic—they build anyway. They sing anyway. And when the wires tremble, they tighten their grip… until their last breath. But us? We can take a leap of faith to fly and leave the toxic nest.

Follow my flight in 2025.

Share with me: What broken nests will you leave behind?

Dedication:
For my late father—who showed me that love is giving, kind, and patient, and that true freedom is sacred. He used to say, ‘If God wants to protect you, no one can harm you.’ This is for him.

-Samyukta Bhandari