Director's Statement

Since my earliest memories, I have never called one place home for long. My father’s job meant that each year brought a new town, a new climate, and new friends—but also the heartache of saying goodbye to what was familiar. I traveled across Nepal, from the cool borders near Tibet to the warm plains of India, learning early on both the beauty and the burden of constant change.

There was one place, though, where we stayed for four years—a time when my soul began to root itself in the land. But nature, as beautiful as it is, can be unforgiving. In one sudden calamity, we were forced to leave, and the ties we had built were torn apart. It was there, in that bittersweet moment that I learned to truly listen: to the rustle of trees, the whisper of the river, and the songs of the birds.

After moving again, I witnessed a sight that still touches my heart—a lone white pigeon, flanked by two light-blue ones, arriving at our new shelter. Soon after, a wounded dog found its way to us, its quiet determination speaking of loss and hope. These animals, with their silent stories of hardship and loyalty, taught me the true meaning of hope and love.

In the 1990s, as life shifted around me, I found solace in the soft static of a small radio. Through it, I heard stories of political unrest, wars, and the cries of those forced from their homes—stories that resonated deeply within me. I devoured the words of Bhutanese refugees in old newspapers and magazines, piecing together a tale that felt both real and surreal.

At twelve, I turned these experiences into my first short drama, a brave step toward understanding and giving voice to those silenced by history. Later, I dedicated myself to the theatre, living among Nepali-speaking Bhutanese refugees, sharing in their struggles and witnessing their quiet strength. My work has always carried the weight of social truth—not merely to entertain, but to illuminate the human heart's capacity to endure.

Though my first project became a celebrated play, my vision long yearned for a larger canvas. My travels to the USA reconnected me with this scattered community, now facing new challenges like mental health struggles and broken families. This ongoing journey inspired me to create The Snow Is Singing—a film woven from personal memory, whispered histories, and countless shared truths.

This film is not just a narrative; it is a living tapestry of real lives, pain, and hope. It is a tribute to a community that has survived ethnic cleansing and cultural erasure—a story of displacement that continues to echo around the world. My goal is not only to recount these memories but to explore how trauma shapes us and how resilience is born from suffering.

Working closely with survivors, many of whom share their own painful stories, has been both challenging and healing. Their voices have become the heartbeat of this film. In the process, I have also healed parts of my own soul. The Snow Is Singing is a hymn for the displaced—a quiet, powerful song of survival and hope, inviting us all to remember, to feel, and to understand.

The Snow Is Singing is born from my lifelong experience of constant movement and loss, from childhood memories of leaving behind homes and familiar faces. It is a film inspired by the beauty of nature, the silent language of animals, and the harsh truths of displacement. Through my journey with theatre and cinema, I have collected stories of pain and resilience, especially from the Nepali-speaking Bhutanese refugees. By working with those who have truly lived these experiences, this film becomes both a story and a shared healing process.

Ultimately, The Snow Is Singing is a heartfelt exploration of generational trauma, cultural loss, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. It is a call for empathy and understanding—a simple, honest tribute to those who wander in search of home.

Visual statement

I am a theatre artist, director, designer, actor, and writer with two decades of experience across national and international platforms. My work fuses theatre and film, dissolving the boundaries between reality and perception, memory and presence.

The Snow is Singing is a theatre-film—a sensory experience where cinema, live performance, and installation converge. It explores migration, identity, and resilience through a deeply personal lens. The film’s aesthetic is my realism—where hyper-real details and dreamlike abstraction collide, reflecting how memory shapes and distorts our sense of belonging. The camera is both a witness and a keeper of fading moments, layering time and space like strata of consciousness.

Visually, the film draws inspiration from the stark isolation of Edward Hopper, the abstract depths of Rothko, the chiaroscuro of Rembrandt, and the haunting distortions of Francis Bacon. But it does not adhere to a fixed style—it moves fluidly, using sound, texture, and fragmented images to evoke feeling. Frame ratios and color palettes shift with memory, expanding in moments of clarity and constricting during inner turmoil. Silence speaks where words cannot, and light and shadow breathe with the characters’ internal worlds.

At its core, this film explores the fragile line between past and present, exile and home, metaphor and realism, self and memory. It does not merely tell a story—it invites the audience to feel it, to experience it, to empathize with it, to inhabit its world. This is not just cinema. It is a space where image, sound, and time dissolve into something deeply human.

Because in the end, the snow does not simply fall and melt—it resonates, it sings. Sometimes pain is not a harsh cry, but a melody of life, the music of the universe, and the echo of ultimate horizons.