Swarnadesh: From a migrant’s dream to a land full of questions

Watching Swarnadesh: The Dreamland of Milk and Graves left me shaken and speechless. But staying silent would feel dishonest—like ignoring a stench that demands investigation. So here I am, compelled to write.

Mandala Theatre’s Swarnadesh doesn’t just tell a story—it pulls you into it. Within minutes, you’re no longer a spectator. You’re trudging through the deadly Darien Gap with the characters, feeling their hunger, thirst, fear, and the shadow of death at every step.

For me, someone who finds joy in hiking Nepal’s hills, this was a harsh wake-up call. What is this glittering dreamland so many are chasing? And why must the price be dignity, identity, or even life?

The women’s stories hit hardest—their abuse, betrayal, and trauma were unbearable to watch. By the end, I felt that even with its struggles, staying in Nepal might be the greatest fortune of all.

Presented by Yolo Entertainment with Subhakshya, the production was powered by unforgettable performances from Sujan Khatriwada, Sujyan Silwal, Santosh Giri, Bhupi Luhar, Jarniko Nik Kalmar, Sandesh Karki, Paritoshika Pant, Ujwal Bantawa Rai, Chirag Paneru, Aarti Gautam, Anil Kurmi, and Aditya Mishra. Multimedia projections skillfully showed locations, timelines, and shifting realities.

Unlike many Nepali productions that rely on translations and feel distant, Swarnadesh was original, raw, and deeply rooted in our own reality. The Rukum West dialects, sharp direction, and bold storytelling made it feel alive.

The play starts without warning—no slow build-up, no introductions. You’re dropped right into the journey, forced to watch closely, read faces, and interpret relationships. It’s disorienting at first, but it draws you deeper.

At its core, Swarnadesh is about illegal migration—a dangerous journey through jungles, rivers, and oceans in search of a golden dream. But it’s also about what happens inside each character: the clash between hope and despair, life and death. These aren’t just migrants—they’re the faces of thousands of struggling Nepali youths.

One haunting thread follows Hari, a former Nepali Army diver. His wife Sita appears as a ghostly presence only he—and the audience—can see. She tries to stop him, carrying their baby, draped in a white sari and red slippers. In the end, when Hari dies, she dresses him with a muffler she had knitted and takes him away. It’s magical realism that turns heartbreak into poetry.

One of the play’s most striking moments comes when the characters throw their Nepali passports to the ground in anger. The passport—meant to symbolize identity and belonging—becomes a sign of betrayal and lost hope. It’s a silent protest against a failed system.

Although the plot moves forward from Nepal to the so-called dreamland, the story circles back to memories of home: the food, the love, a mother’s touch. It reminds us how often we hate what we love, and leave what we yearn for.

When the curtain falls, the questions remain:
Must our dreams cost us our lives? Can’t we dream here in Nepal? Is it personal choice or a broken system that drives our youth away? How many more Haris must die before we change?

Swarnadesh doesn’t give answers—it hands the questions back to us. It turns the stage into a mirror, forcing us to see not just the characters, but ourselves. And that is what great theatre does—it doesn’t just entertain, it awakens.