The wood of a khat does not distinguish between the shoulders of men and women. Yet, society has long made that distinction. When I placed my shoulder beneath a khat while restitution of Kumari Chhen Toran, Mahagauri and Buddha, I experienced something that cannot be fully explained through the language of cultural preservation. The physical weight was real, but the emotional weight was greater. They were not ‘historical objects’ being transported from one location to another. They were taken to their home where they belonged.
For me, carrying that weight gave me a sense of belonging. It meant participating physically in the continuation of a heritage I have worked to protect. For a brief moment, the distance between advocating for cultural heritage and becoming part of its living practice seemed to disappear. Yet that experience also left me with an uncomfortable question: ‘Why should the opportunity for a woman to shoulder her own heritage still feel exceptional?’
In Kathmandu Valley, where goddesses occupy some of the most sacred positions in our religious interpretation, women’s participation in the public and institutional life of heritage has often been subject to restrictions. The contradiction deserves more than a passing observation. It requires us to research the relationship between devotion, gender and cultural authority.
Worshipped as divine, restricted as human
This exclusion is underscored by a profound cultural irony. Every year during Yenya Punhi (Yenya Punhi ), the Valley erupts in reverence for Kumari Maju. We venerate a living female divinity, placing her at the absolute centre of our civic and spiritual universe. Tens of thousands gather to worship, pull, and trail the chariot of a female goddess. It defies logic that a society which elevates the feminine divine to its highest cultural pedestal simultaneously invoked tradition to bar community women from touching the very ropes that move her. We trusted women to embody the divine, but not to carry it.
For much of the festival’s history, pulling the chariots was predominantly a male responsibility. The streets belonged to the men who built, manoeuvred, and carried the chariots, while women were relegated to the domestic sphere, essential to the preparation of the bhoye and household rituals, but excluded from the physical exertion of the procession. Their contribution was indispensable, but it did not necessarily grant them equal access to the most visible ceremonial roles.
The contradiction becomes particularly striking when ideas of ritual purity are used to limit women’s participation. In some religious settings, menstruation and female reproductive biology have historically been invoked as grounds for restricting access to sacred spaces and responsibilities. Such practices are often treated as inseparable from religion, even when their application varies across communities and changes over time.
The issue is not whether sacred rituals should have meaning, discipline or established protocols. They must. Rather, the question is whether every inherited gender restriction is essential to the sacredness of a ritual, or whether some reflect social hierarchies that have acquired religious authority over generations.
Worshipping a goddess does not automatically guarantee respect for women. Divine representation and human equality are different matters. Fortunately, Kathmandu’s living traditions also demonstrate that this contradiction can be challenged from within.
When women took hold of the ropes
One of the most important developments in Kathmandu’s recent festival history occurred during Yenya Punhi itself. In 2011, women began pulling the chariot of Kumari during the concluding Nanichaya procession. By 2012, their participation had expanded to the chariots of Kumari, Ganesh and Bhairav. The procession that had once reflected restrictions on women’s physical participation became an occasion for women to demonstrate their collective devotion and capability. The significance of this development extends beyond the sight of women pulling heavy ropes through crowded streets. It challenges the assumption that inherited festival practices are incapable of change.
A similar transition occurred in Kathmandu’s Seto Machhindranath Jatra, also known as Jana Baha Dyah Jatra. Women began pulling the chariot in 2018, after previously being restricted from doing so. Their participation became an established part of the opening stretch of the procession, from Tindhara Pathshala towards Ghantaghar.
The recent evolution within Kathmandu’s Seto Machhindranath Jatra proves that traditions do not have to break to bend. In a monumental shift, historical restrictions were lifted, and women were formally invited to take the heavy ropes of Karunamaya’s chariot alongside men. This was not a chaotic disruption of ancestral ways, nor was it a dilution of spiritual sanctity. Through strategic, respectful dialogue, traditional Guthi elders recognised a practical truth that, in an era of rapid urbanisation and shifting demographics, excluding half the population from civic and spiritual life actively endangers the survival of the jatra.
Herito-Feminism: Preserving heritage, breaking inequality
I describe this approach as herito-feminism, a perspective that brings together cultural heritage preservation and feminist concerns about power, representation and justice. Herito-feminism begins with a simple proposition: protecting cultural heritage and challenging gender discrimination are not competing responsibilities but are necessary to sustain a living cultural tradition.
It does not demand that communities abandon their sacred knowledge, disregard ritual responsibilities or surrender control of their traditions to outsiders. On the contrary, it recognises that communities must remain central to the protection, interpretation and transmission of their heritage.
Herito-feminism therefore distinguishes between protecting the integrity of a cultural practice and defending every historical inequality associated with its administration. It does not assume that every ritual distinction is discriminatory. Nor does it assume that all communities have identical practices or that reforms can be imposed through a single formula. Instead, it demands a careful examination of restrictions, their purposes, their consequences and the voices excluded from interpreting them. Cultural preservation should protect collective memory without discriminating against an unquestionable part of that memory.
Beyond the procession: The doors of the Guthi
The achievements of women during Yenya Punhi and Seto Machhindranath Jatra raise an important question: What happens after the chariots return to their resting places? The public procession ends, the ropes are put away, the crowds disperse but decisions about the next festival continue throughout the year.
In many Newa communities, Guthis have long played an essential role in maintaining religious sites, organising festivals, managing communal resources and transmitting ritual responsibilities. Their importance cannot be overstated because without the dedication of generations of Guthiyars, countless cultural practices might not have survived. At the same time, hereditary membership and leadership in certain Guthis have historically favoured men. Women may participate in preparations, religious observances and supporting activities without holding equivalent authority over administration or succession.
There are signs of meaningful change. In Thecho, for example, women have begun serving on committees associated with Mali Guthi traditions, participating in decisions and taking on responsibilities previously considered male domains. Yet certain hereditary positions and internal ritual roles remain restricted. This difference between participation and authority is central to the herito-feminist argument. Participation without decision-making power is progress, but it is not complete equality.
This does not mean that Guthis should be dismissed as inherently oppressive institutions. They are expressions of Indigenous cultural organisation, community autonomy and collective responsibility. Their preservation is essential. Precisely because these institutions matter, their internal structures deserve thoughtful discussion.
Where hereditary membership is passed through sons, there should be serious consideration of daughters’ rights to assume comparable responsibilities. Where women already manage substantial aspects of festivals, opportunities for formal representation and leadership should reflect that contribution. Where restrictions are justified through ritual obligations, dialogue must distinguish indispensable religious requirements from practices maintained primarily through habit or social hierarchy.
These conversations should be led with the participation of women from within the communities concerned, alongside traditional custodians, elders and younger generations. I write with respect for the depth of knowledge maintained by these communities and with an awareness that I do not belong to the core ritual structures of every tradition discussed here. My intention is not to dictate how a particular Guthi should perform its sacred responsibilities. Rather, it is to ask whether women who inherit the responsibility of preserving a tradition can also inherit meaningful authority over its future.
Cultural rights, constitutional equality and living heritage
This conversation is also relevant to Nepal’s constitutional commitments. Article 32 of the Constitution of Nepal guarantees the right to participate in the cultural life of one’s community and recognises the right to preserve and promote cultural heritage. Article 38 affirms women’s equal lineage rights. Article 26 protects religious freedom and the operation of religious Guthis.
These protections must be understood together. Cultural autonomy deserves protection, but so does the principle that women should not be treated as lesser inheritors of their communities’ history.
International heritage principles offer a similar direction. UNESCO’s framework for safeguarding intangible cultural heritage recognises that traditions are continuously recreated by communities. Its ethical principles emphasise community participation, respect for customary practices and attention to gender equality.
This is not a justification for outsiders to decide how communities must perform their rituals. It is a recognition that meaningful preservation requires the participation of the people who create, maintain and transmit cultural knowledge.
From carrying heritage to shaping its future
I return to the memory of carrying the khat. What remains with me is not the physical strain but the sense of connection. For that moment, I was not simply observing a tradition from a distance; rather, I was being a part of our collective history, carrying it towards its future. I also know that countless women before me have sustained cultural traditions without receiving similar visibility.
Some preserved rituals through domestic labour. Some passed on songs, stories and knowledge. Others contributed resources, organised celebrations and protected sacred practices during difficult times. Their contributions may not always have been recognised as leadership, but they were acts of stewardship nonetheless. The women pulling the chariots of Kumari and Karunamaya have already demonstrated that sacred traditions can make room for new forms of participation without losing their identity.
The next challenge is to ensure that this participation does not end with ceremonial labour. We need women not only as devotees and volunteers, but also as researchers, ritual learners, decision-makers, recognised custodians and future elders of their cultural institutions. The objective is not to replace one exclusionary structure with another. It is to build a form of preservation in which cultural continuity and human dignity strengthen each other. A living tradition should not require women to remain invisible to prove its authenticity.
Our ancestors entrusted us with remarkable cultural treasures. Honouring them requires more than reproducing inherited practices without question. It requires the wisdom to distinguish ‘what must be preserved?’ from ‘what can be changed so that those traditions continue to thrive?’. The women of Kathmandu have already shown that they can carry the weight of their gods and goddesses. The question now is whether they will be equally trusted to carry the responsibility of deciding their future.
The ropes have opened. Now, it is time to open the doors.
